To Death and Glory
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: Five years after the adventure in Nihon-Ja, life's dull for Rangers Halt and Will. That is, until a beast from the east comes prowling for Champions. Septimus, a rogue Toscan, is searching for the most skilled warriors of various countries to fight in the colossal Arena of Romena. Most of these warriors are not willing contestants. And now he's in Araluen, with an eye on a Ranger.
1. A Young Prodigy

**_This is a test_. Actually, I don't know what it is. It's sort of a try-out, a little experiment. It's also my first Ranger's Apprentice fic and I hope you like it :) At least this bit. I've fiddle-farted around with a few ideas, the biggest being what I said in the summary. ****I don't want to sound like this is a "I will only continue if there are such and such number of reviews, alerts etc" No. But at the same time, yes, I do. If no one reads it, why bother strain my brain? **

**Actually, I may just continue either way. An escape from the other fandom I write for. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own this lovely, charming, kick-ass series. I tried to copy Flanagan's style a little ~ don't think it worked. Doesn't matter. I'm talking too much. Oh yeah, and it takes place five years after _The Emperor of Nihon-Ja_. Enjoy To Death and Glory :)**

* * *

~1~ A Young Prodigy

Will slipped amongst the dense reeds, placing his feet oh-so-carefully as he crept towards the edge of the pond. The heavy stench of rotting, damp vegetation, released afresh with every soft placement of his boot, clogging his nostrils. But he refrained from breathing through his mouth, which would create unnecessary noise. So slowly did he move, the tall grasses paid him no heed and made no sound.

His quarry remained oblivious.

He lost sight of him for several moments as he had no choice but to duck into the taller reeds, trusting his cloak to soften and blend the hard edges his body would otherwise make against the greenery. He felt the hilt of his saxe knife snag on a cattail, but, moving slow enough to turn time backwards, he untangled himself and continued on, silent as the sleeping dead, lethal as a prowling lion.

As part of his training, he had learned to ignore the sounds that were nothing but background. This included the frogs, birds, wind in the grass and the gentle lap of water brushing the shore. Therefore, Will was able to hear the slight nicker of his horse, somewhere behind him, in the trees. That was usually a warning sign, but it might just as well be a greeting. When the Ranger glanced around, he saw no threats. He ignored the sound for now and continued on.

The rippling waters of the pond soon came into view again, but, as Will looked, he realized that his prey had wandered off. He had been on the muddy bank of the pond, and the Ranger could spot the footprints that paced along it before they dashed into the reeds. Will nodded in admiration and satisfaction. His quarry was smart enough to retreat quietly and so buy himself time to escape.

He turned back just in time to see someone brush the reeds ten paces away. He heard footsteps, boots squishing the pond mud, and then a slight, stifled snigger.

Snigger? Bandits don't snigger. Bandits chuckle evilly when they stalk, but softly enough so that their prey doesn't hear them.

_Time to end this little game_, Will thought, a wolfish smile splitting across his young features. Then he winced, the not-yet healed wound on his leg twinging in protest. He swallowed the pain and stepped more carefully.

He could see the ivy-swarmed log cabin that had been established some years past, a cozy little hut that remained cool in the summer and toasty in the winter. It was almost entirely green from the plant life that crawled up its walls and tangled on the eaves. A perfect place to blend. It stood about twenty paces away from the last of the pond reeds, a trail of smoke slithering heavenward from the stone chimney. Beyond it, to the far southwest, the jagged peaks of the Mountains of Rain and Night stabbed into the sky like the earth's broken, snow-dusted teeth.

Will slipped towards the cabin now, making no more noise than he had before. His calf flared briefly with every step.

There was open space between the cabin and the reeds, but the forest that walled the pond on the west side and curled around to the south provided excellent cover as the sun began to set. Long shadows cast by the trees made the window of opportunity so wide, Will could throw Castle Redmont through it, Baron and all.

The clear grass simply aided the Ranger as he made his way across to the forest, using the moving shadows caused by the wind in the trees to cross the barren space like a wraith. In one hand, it softened his footfalls and made his crossing silent; in another, he could see where his quarry had fled towards the cabin, his feet leaving light dents in the grass. In any case, there were dollops of pond mud left behind by the highwayman's shoes. It didn't take a half-baked tracker to notice that.

Will kept his breathing deep and regular, his body relaxed, preventing his muscles from clenching and cramping with tension as he crossed the open ground to the trees. Of course, it was no challenge for him. Such things were child's play now.

Tug, his faithful Ranger horse, almost whickered a greeting as though he had forgotten that his master was on a mission. With a brief flick of his hand, Will silenced the little horse, who almost seemed to shrug.

_I didn't see nobody_, Will imagined him saying. _You're chasing shadows_.

"Of course you didn't," the Ranger said aloud, so softly he could barely hear himself.

Ebony wagged her tail but retained her silence, hiding in the shadows of Tug. The collie, fully grown now, was an intelligent creature, knowing Tug's signals almost as well as the horse.

Will's yet unseen prey made another mistake by stepping on a twig. Ebony's head whipped around, toward the cabin, but she remained in place, knowing that if her owner wanted her to track something, he would signal to her.

Leaving the trees, Will's back was soon against the west wall of the cabin, and he used the tangles of green ivy that had made the hut their home to his advantage. He saw that the dents in the grass, the footprints of his prey, continuing around to the back of the house, the south wall. When he followed them, he realized, as he'd suspected, they continued to circle the log hut.

The Ranger could tell that the trod-upon twig was somewhere on the east side of the cabin. When he got there, of course, he couldn't see anybody. It was then that he heard the sound of wood hitting wood. A solid _thunk_. It was obvious that it came from the front of the cabin, where there was the wooden veranda.

Will contemplated whether he should just remain where he was, in the shadows and blending with ivy, and let his quarry circle the cabin again, to receive a nasty surprise when he realized that the Ranger was waiting for him. But some sixth sense, some instinct, told him that his prey had stopped and was waiting for _him_.

He slowly glanced around the corner, scanning the porch. There was a bench and an empty water barrel, but no bandit. He could see, even from a distance, the crushed grass that had been trod upon and the now reduced pieces of sticky mud. The tracks did not continue to circle the cabin, but ended at the foot of the veranda's two front steps. Neither the door nor the windows showed any sign of forced entry, and Will knew that they were locked.

_Under the porch_, he thought, and, without bothering to conceal himself any further, the Ranger dropped to the ground and peeked through the latticework that shielded the space beneath the veranda.

"Gotcha!" he said, but his grin faded as he saw that there was no one to get. There was just dirt and dead grass. "Hm."

Standing, favouring his injured leg as he did so, he moved toward the steps, pointedly ignoring the footprints in the grass.

"Where did he go?" Will scratched his head and looked around, then rubbed the stubble he had allowed to grow over the past few weeks on his chin. "It's like...he disappeared into thin air!"

He heard a giggle, but feigned obliviousness as he stepped up onto the porch and moved to lean on the rail, his back to the water barrel. "I just have no idea." He shook his head in mock despair. "Oh, Halt's going to be _so_ disappointed in me..."

There was that solid _thunk_ again, the sound of wood on wood. The water barrel. It was louder this time, and came from just behind him. A heartbeat later, Will felt small arms wrap around his waist.

"_Raaawr!_"

"AHG! Something's got me!"

"Rawr rawr rawr!"

Will buckled his knees and collapsed, falling onto his side but propping himself up on one hand so as to not crush the tiny arms that had embraced his middle.

"Oh, all is lost! The bandit has caught me!" He let himself slowly roll onto his back, forcing his captor to giggle and scramble out of the way. His arm swept up to his forehead like a final farewell to life. "I am finished! Goodbye, cruel hard world!" His chest exhaled loudly, and then Will laid there, eyes shut, holding his breath.

A few seconds of silence, then the Ranger felt something poke his closed eyelid.

"Uncle Will? You not dead."

His eyes snapped open. "No." The Ranger's arms lunged up and grabbed the youth that crouched over him. The boy shrieked with laughter as Will tickled him, curling into a ball in a vain effort to defend himself.

"No no no! Rangers ain't ticklish! Rangers ain't ticklish!" Then all the boy could do was laugh, and Will figured that if he continued for much longer, his nephew would only pee himself with hilarity. So he let him roll away and get to his feet. Even though Will was sitting on his rear end, the youth barely met his height standing tall.

"I did it, Uncle Will! I did it! I got yew!"

The Ranger gave a graceful bow where he sat. "I am unworthy in the presence of a master. Please, spare my life, oh great and merciful one, so that I may learn your ways."

The boy put his finger on his chin. "Hm. I hafta fink about it."

"I'm begging you, great master. I have a horse to feed and a dog to walk!" Will was having a difficult time holding the pleading face and reining in the smile. Finally, his nephew grinned.

"Fine. But I git to see yer battle wound naow!"

The injury on Will's leg – a long, jagged gash that ran from a bit over his ankle, up his calf to just under halfway to his knee – wasn't exactly what he'd call a battle wound in regards to how he received it. Will was reluctant to show it, having come up with excuses for the past five days to deter his nephew's interest. Now, he sighed.

"Oh, all right then. You drive a hard bargain, master."

He pulled off his boot and hiked up his pant leg. The stitched cut was now covered in blotched bandages, stained by blood and mud and sweat. Inwardly, he was alarmed to see dark veins creeping along his ankle and upper calf, the signs of infection. It didn't smell too fresh either. He could have sworn it was fine yesterday! He was going to have to look at it closer soon.

He knew Halt wouldn't be pleased if he took off the linen to show off the stitches, and he was glad that the boy didn't ask him to.

"Do it hurt, Uncle Will? Do it hurt?"

"Aye, it do hurt, Crowley. But you know what? Your strength gives me strength. I can survive knowing there's you to protect me."

"And God knows you need the protection."

Will sat straight and turned his upper body at the new voice, the familiar waves of comfort and security washing over him at the sound of his old mentor.

"Halt. How wonderful of you to join us."

The grizzled old Ranger materialized from the trees and ghosted across the lawn to the cabin, leaving Abelard, his horse, behind to crop the grass. Halt grinned lightly as he lowered his cowl, a sight more common ever since four years ago, when his one and only son was born.

"Papa!" Crowley rushed to hug his father, who crouched to embrace him properly.

"Been a good lad, Crowley? Bug Will all the time like I told you?"

The boy giggled. "You said to _protect_ Uncle Will, Papa, not bug!"

Halt rubbed his chin, coarse grey hairs pricking his fingers. "Did I say that? Hm. Must be getting old."

"You were old before I was born, Halt," said Will, but he was grinning. He stood up and lowered his own hood.

"Good to see you, too, Will." Halt squinted. "What's that scraggle you've got on your face?"

The younger Ranger felt the stubble along his jaw, stiffening indignantly. "This 'scraggle' is more neat than your mug could ever grow."

"What a scraggle?" asked Crowley, innocently curious. Will ruffled his sandy blonde hair.

"Your old man is just trying to sound smart by making up words," he said casually, a slight emphasis on _old_. He stooped over with a grimace, pulling down his pant leg to hide the bandages and carefully tugging his boot back on.

Halt bit back a retort out of concern for his former apprentice. Not that he revealed the concern either. He remembered some weeks ago receiving word that Will had been injured on a mission in the Mountains of Rain and Night, and his imagination had immediately went into turmoil. He pictured the young Ranger lying in a ditch somewhere, slashed open from shoulder to hip and bleeding his life away, alone and in agony. Then he pictured him hobbling around on a crutch, missing a leg and doomed to roam the country as a minstrel slash undercover agent like Ranger Berrigan. Such a fate might suit Berrigan, but not Will.

Fortunately, Halt had then been reassured that Will had merely sustained a wound in his leg that was prone to heal, so long as it was looked after properly. Again, the old Ranger withheld his relief as though it had been not but an ingrown toenail.

"You're getting lax, Will," he said, ready as ever to exchange witty remarks with his former pupil. "I must have thundered like the king's cavalry past the cabin, yet you didn't even bother to investigate."

"Oh, I detected you, all right," said Will, meeting the older man eye to eye. There was a mischievous glint there. "Well, Tug did. I heard him greet Abelard. _You_ were too slow to order his silence before he made the sound."

This was partially a lie, but close enough to the truth for Will to retain a clean conscience. Relatively. He had indeed heard Tug nicker while his master was hunting in the pond reeds for Crowley, though he had disregarded the sound a moment later. It must have been Halt riding up to the cabin, only to realize what Will was doing and move to hide in the woods, triggering Tug's greeting.

Now the former pupil rolled his eyes at Crowley. "Mentors. Always try to outfox their old apprentices once they graduate." Will grinned at Halt's dangerous scowl. This, of course, wasn't true. In fact, it was the opposite. _Apprentices_ went after _mentors,_ which drove the mentors up the wall and across the ceiling.

"You _and_ Gilan," Halt growled. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're from the same brood."

"What a brood?" asked Crowley before Will could retaliate. Halt shook his head.

"Never mind, boy."

"Hey, Uncle Will! Can I call Tug? Peas?"

Will blinked until he realized that Crowley meant _please_, not peas. "Sure, lad. Remember how?"

The boy nodded proudly. "Two short wissels! Two short wissels!" His lips moved oddly as he tried to put them against his teeth and whistle. There were several unsuccessful _whishing_ sounds, and Will humorously admired his determination.

"Place your lips like this," he said, showing Crowley the proper way. "Don't force all the air out at once, and use your tongue." He whistled in demonstration, twice. It would summon Tug, but reassure the horse that neither haste nor stealth was necessary. "Try again."

This time, spittle came from between Crowley's lips, and he somehow made a sound similar to a raspberry. He tried again and again, however, until something that half-sounded like a whistle came out. It was still whimsy. He pouted in frustration. "I can't do it!"

Will nodded enthusiastically. "But you did, Crowley, you did! Look!"

He pointed. Sure enough, the small, shaggy grey horse was walking into view, head high and nickering a greeting to all present. Crowley squealed with joy.

"I did it! Papa, I call Tug!"

Will and Halt exchanged a knowing look over Crowley's head, with Halt's showing gratitude. They weren't going to mention, of course, that it was Will's demonstration whistles that actually called Tug.

"Tug Tuggy Tug!" Crowley made for the little horse, slow enough to not startle the beast, and hugged his leg. "I luva Tug!"

The horse looked down at the boy, then at Will as though saying, _I never knew humans came so small. Fun size._

Halt glanced sideways at Will. "Got any coffee?"

* * *

**So yeah, it's not really Flanagan's writing style ~ I never once used the word "****philosophically****."**

**I should say that, whatever happens, this story will _not_ become one of those overly-used child hostage situations. I have ideas that involve Will!Whump, though...**

**I won't grovel for reviews or anything but they're fuel for the fire! Energy for the engine! Coal for the...uh, cauldron...! Erm... (Searching for ways to outfox ********cliqu********é********s ****can be quite hazardous.)**

**Boons for the brain! There we go! :D**


	2. Battle Wounds

**I don't usually take so long to update, but I wanted to stockpile the gunpowder before firing the cannons. **

* * *

~2~ Battle Wounds

For the past fortnight, Halt had been on a mission for King Duncan, leaving Pauline to look after young Crowley in Redmont fief. The boy, however, was avid in visiting his "Uncle" Will in the south, where he had been investigating unrest in the villages there. It was somewhat unclaimed land, with no baron to oversee it properly and therefore no Ranger. Being a member of the Special Task Force, Will had been dispatched to reveal what was so troubling. It was there, on the jagged slopes that the dark lord Morgarath had once called home, that he was injured by a Wargal. Only when he returned, his mission complete, was he able to see his "nephew."

Now, Halt, too, was done his task and had come to pick up his son. For now, though, they sat around the comforting fire while the night loomed outside, sipping coffee in Halt's and Will's case, chewing a sugar cane in Crowley's. It was a rare treat, something Halt had come across during his mission in Arrida. It didn't look very appetizing, but once the boy tried it, it was impossible to take away from him.

"So tell me more about your...misadventure," said Halt, cupping his mug in his hands. The warm, savoury brew was helping him settle his aged bones nicely. The grounds, after all, came right from Arrida as well. "Your letter was very vague...and I can see you jiggling in your seat, anxious to tell me."

Will blinked, thinking that he'd held his composure rather well. Then he shrugged. "Well, a carrier pigeon can only carry so much." Crowley was lying on his stomach beside Ebony, sugar cane in hand, but it was obvious that he was listening. Will knew that he was going to have to downsize some of the details.

He started with his briefing with Crowley, Halt's son's namesake and the Ranger Commandant, which had informed him of the restlessness in the villages near the Mountains of Rain and Night. The remainder of Morgarath's human followers, notorious criminals, had already been rounded up; still, the king had feared the rise of another warlord, and ordered a Ranger to investigate.

Taking up temporary residence in the log cabin Will and Halt were currently enjoyed coffee in, the young Ranger had continued on until he came across what seemed like three completely ordinary villages. When he arrived to the first, incognito in his minstrel garb, the people were cold and aloof. Not hostile, just unusually reserved. It was strange, seeing as Will was acting as a travelling jongleur, a normally welcome face in places like that. In fact, he was hastened right out the door of the first inn he came to, the keeper begging him to simply leave and never return.

Will could see Halt's interest in this, though the grizzled Ranger was clearly trying to hide it.

Having checked the other inns and taverns at the three villages, each about five miles apart with farmland in between, Will had recognized the need for some serious undercover prying. An instinct told him that bribes and threats were going to do no good, and would only serve in revealing his presence to whoever was disturbing the settlements. People talk to those with influence and power, be it benevolent or malevolent. Will had had no doubt that there was something malevolent creeping about, and knew that secrecy was his best weapon now.

By much spying and eavesdropping, he discovered that the headmen of each village, who were three brothers, had been kidnapped, along with their wives and children. The people were shut up tighter than clams on that regard, terrified as they were by...something Will had yet to discover. Then, it was by pure chance that he came across a group of individuals who had an air of maliciousness about them. He tailed them, unsurprised when they led him to the forests at the immediate foot of the Mountains of Rain and Night.

For three days he followed them, quickly crossing the forest and climbing the Mountains themselves. It wasn't pleasant for Will. The trails were coarse and treacherous, and he had to leave Ebony and Tug behind for their own safety. He would have to rely on his own senses to detect danger.

His prey passed through two Wargal hamlets. Will called them that because of their size and temperament. The creatures, once seen as vile, savage beasts, were harmless unless provoked. But provoked one was when Will accidentally stepped between a mother and her cub.

The bearlike Wargal had roared in fury as she charged from a crevice, giving the Ranger no time to raise his longbow in defence. He threw himself to the side, narrowly missing the creature's lunge. He stood just in time to see a Wargal cub, mewling in fright, scurry to hide behind the raging adult, and the Ranger understood immediately what he had unwittingly done. That stopped him from shooting the Wargal. Instead, he climbed, practically throwing himself up the rocky cliff that blocked the sun with its size. But even so, he was too slow to avoid the Wargal's last attempt to deal with the threat. Her claws sliced down his calf, leaving three gashes. Two were pretty much healed by the time his mission was over, but the third, the middle one, was deep and painful. Will had nearly fallen in the agony, which would have been fatal. He managed to cling to the wall like a limpet, and soon the frustrated Wargal left him, ushering her cub to safety.

There was no greenery in the Mountains, but the Ranger Commandant, Crowley, had the foresight to give Will a cloak not unlike his current green-mottled one. It was a mixture of greys, blacks and whites, which gave the young Ranger the ability to blend with the rocky, snowy Mountains. He tried to do so after the Wargal left, figuring that his quarry, the six suspicious individuals from the village, had heard the defending mother and would come investigate. However, his wound hindered him, prevented him from moving quickly, and leaving a blood trail in his wake. He tried to bind it hastily to staunch the flow, wondering if it wouldn't have just been wise to kill the Wargal in the first place. He disregarded the thought a heartbeat later. Every creature had the right to protect its offspring, to follow its nature. Will just wished that nature had been more merciful to him.

"I did manage to hide," the young Ranger said, finishing his coffee. It was cold now, and his throat was parched from so much talking. "But only just. They had a half-decent tracker with them who found the blood. I overheard them talking, not twenty paces from where I hid, that they figured that it was from a conflict between two Wargals, that's all."

"Fortunately for you," Halt replied flatly. He wasn't pleased that Will had let himself get injured. But then he mentally slapped himself. Will didn't _let_ himself get injured. It just happened. He couldn't have known that there was a silent Wargal cub on one side and the parent on the other without Tug or Ebony's warnings. "So where did the six take you?"

"To another, sullen village, somewhere in a lake valley. A real dodgy place, with depressing buildings and even more depressing people. It isn't on the map," Will said. "From listening in on the six, I discovered that there was a rivalry between the leader of that village and the three of the others—rather, the leaders' families were in the middle of a blood feud. The man in the mountains – his name was Berkart Falk – believed that he had the rightful ownership of the lands the other villages had occupied."

"Sounds like Morgarath," said Halt thoughtfully. Will nodded.

"That's what I thought, too. Anyway, he'd kidnapped the leaders of the other villages and their families, threatening torture and death unless they revoked their land claims. The usual stuff."

"You learned all this from six men?" Halt's signature eyebrow-raise made Will blush slightly.

"They talked a lot! In any case, they were drinking about a tonne of horse p— I mean, a tonne of cheap ale the whole time. It was a miracle they didn't totter drunk over the edge of a cliff."

Continuing with his tale, despite his growing exhaustion, Will recounted how he had needed definite proof that Berkart had the rightful ownership of the other lands, if indeed he had. Will had left the Mountains as fast as he could and made for the nearest fief, where he found the legal documents. They had been placed there for safekeeping.

"I was surprised to discover – as I assume you would be, too – that Berkart was telling the truth," said Will. Just as he suspected, Halt raised an eyebrow again. The minimal display of emotion was enough for the young Ranger to recognize his old mentor's astonishment. "Berkart's family, the Falks, was indeed entitled to those lands. Apparently, there had been a fight between the two large families many years ago, and Berkart's was chased out, into the Mountains. The Falks declared the blood feud not long after."

"What were they fighting over?" asked Halt.

Will shrugged, then yawned widely. Why was he so _tired?_ "The records didn't say much. Sounded like the usurpers, the Callips, simply thought themselves better leaders. The people certainly loved them, and feared the Falks."

Halt grunted, then eased his legs onto a footstool. "I suppose your mission ended there."

"Pretty much. It got all legal and political from then on. I won't bore you with the details, so to make things short, I dragged Berkart out in his nightshirt and demanded he release the other village headmen at once before I stuffed him inside a boulder. Wearing the cloak that I was, which made me look like I came out of the boulder in question – and him recalling the magical abilities of Rangers – he believed me quick enough." Will grinned. "I thought I'd take a leaf out of your book, you know. Very effective."

Halt nodded in appreciation but said nothing.

"I took him and the other headmen before Baron Geoffrey to determined the rightful ownership."

"Which was Berkart, you said."

"Yes. But Geoffrey didn't like him. He gave the land to the Callips."

"Why?"

Will shrugged. "Berkart, essentially, was an ass before the Baron. Earned him a one-way ticket to exile." The Ranger tried to put up his feet, too. He winced as his leg rippled with pain and he gave up. "The villagers had been terrified of the Falks in the past anyway. Berkart gave them no reason to like him. He basically set himself up for disaster."

Halt studied his former pupil, almost tasting the dissatisfaction radiating from him like heat. "You aren't pleased." It wasn't really a question. Will sagged slightly.

"No. It was too easy, almost boring. Idiots like Berkart always set themselves up for disaster, leaving no fun work for me." He glanced furtively at Halt. "I wish I had the chance to at least throw someone into a moat."

Halt grimaced. "Not terribly original, I'm afraid."

"Only because you made it that way."

Will stifled a yawn and looked to young Crowley. The boy had fallen asleep, face buried in Ebony's ruff. His half-chewed sugar cane was only in his hand because he had gotten it all sticky.

"You're teaching him well," he said finally, and Halt jerked awake.

"Hm? What?"

"I said, you're teaching him well. He moves almost completely silent now." Will smirked. "Have to work on those giggles, though."

Halt glowered. "He doesn't _giggle_. He...he..."

"Chuckles in a manly fashion. Okay, Halt."

The old Ranger grumbled incoherently, and Will smiled again. It wasn't five quiet minutes later that Halt's snores started to rattle the windows.

"Blimey," blurted the younger man, and Halt jerked awake a second time.

"Huh? What...? I wasn't _sleeping_, you ragamuffin!" He sat up, eyes glinting dangerously.

"No. You were snoring."

"_I don't snore!_"

Will clucked his tongue. "Wow. You must be the only man I know who snores when he's awake."

"I was clearing my throat!" Halt retorted. "Gets cold down in these parts, you know."

With a grunt, Will stood. "I need to change these bandages. Been a few days."

"Need any help?"

"No, but thanks, Halt. I—" The Ranger crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

"Will!"


	3. Questions and Decisions

**Oh my, I've never had so many reviews so soon like this! _Ya_-yeah! Thank you thank you thank you! :D**

* * *

~3~ Questions and Decisions

Halt sat back from his former apprentice, shaking his head despondently. The Wargal injury was staggeringly more worse than Will had claimed. Three long, ugly gashes ran down his leg unevenly. The two outer ones were scabbed and on the way to healing, but the middle, the deepest, longest and widest, was festering angrily around the stitches. The infection had given Will a raging fever, throwing the young man into a coma of some kind.

"You young fool," Halt muttered, shaking his head again. Wargal wounds had to be constantly watched with utmost scrutiny. Unlike a bear or a wolf, a Wargal had small pockets of venom in its claws that broke when struck hard enough. If one of the bearlike creatures was to scratch its prey, it could follow the wounded animal for days or even weeks until the poor beast collapsed, just like Will had done.

_It must have been two or three weeks_ _since he'd been injured_, Halt thought. _His negligence, or lack of proper knowledge, has brought this upon him_.

Halt had done what he could, washing the clotted, corrupted blood away and removing the soiled stitches and bandages. He cleaned the horrid gash, wincing as though it were his own wound, with the salve that every Ranger carried. It was a general disinfectant, and he hoped that it would suffice until he could get Will real help.

He stitched the wound up neatly, then bound it with freshly boiled linen. As he finished, Will groaned and writhed slightly. Halt looked to see if the young man's eyes would open, but they didn't.

A small hand, clutching a sodden wash cloth, came into view and began to dab at Will's forehead.

"Papa, will he wake?"

"Crowley, what are you doing up?"

"Will he _wake_, Papa?"

Will chose that moment to stiffen and groan again, grimacing as though in pain.

Crowley panicked. "He hurting! Papa, do something! He hurting—"

"Shush, Crowley. It'll be all right." Halt took his son's hand and led him away, back to his bed. "We've done what we can for him. He's on his own for now."

The child looked ready to cry, and the grey-bearded Ranger crouched before him. "I swear to you, Crowley. Uncle Will can pull through." He tried to chuckle lightly. "He's had worse, believe me." But Halt was having trouble remembering when that was.

Fortunately, the boy didn't pry. He seemed to know when to simply stop asking.

"Go to sleep, Crowley. Everything will be fine in the morning, you'll see." He kissed the child's brow. "You'll see."

Dawn came, and "fine" was about as good as it got. Halt stayed up all night watching over his son and his old pupil, the former sleeping fitfully and the latter still refusing to break free of his fever. At least he was alive. Still, the old Ranger knew he had to find help soon.

Looking at a map he found, he saw that there was a village not a day's ride away. That's a day there and a day back. Castle Highcliff was further. Even with a Ranger horse to give meaning to the word haste, Halt feared that aid may be too far away. He couldn't leave Will alone, and he couldn't exactly leave Crowley behind to "look after him."

Ebony whined and licked her master's sweating face, trying to revive him. Halt felt one side of his mouth lift. The dog was smart, and could probably protect Will from any casual predator, be it man or beast. But that didn't reassure the Ranger. A dog couldn't keep a man's fever down or get him water or feed him.

When Crowley woke up with the sun, he immediately asked about his uncle before he even wiped the sleep crunches from his eyes.

"He up, Papa? Uncle Will up?"

Halt couldn't lie. Not when it could only do more harm than good.

"No, son. But he will. Feed Abelard and Tug, would you? I'm going to check Uncle Will's bandages."

The boy didn't move, standing there with his bed clothes all rumpled. "Will he die?"

The question was so abrupt, Halt hesitated. It wasn't often when so few as three words struck him dumb. He shook himself a moment later.

"I will not lie to you, boy, but I swear, I'm doing everything I can. Will is strong. Where do you think 'willpower' came from, eh? Now, go look at the horses, there's a good lad."

In all honesty, Halt desperately wished to feed the horses himself. Not only because it was simply something Rangers do for their faithful steeds, but also for a distraction. Worrying like this was not good for his aching body. Too much stress.

Will, in addition to his fever, started to make small grunting sounds, throaty, as though he was having troubles breathing.

Crowley slowly edged out the door of the cabin, calling Ebony after him. The collie hesitated, looking from the boy to her master uncertainly. Then she followed obediently, tail drooped. When the door creaked closed behind them, Halt faced his old apprentice again, who continued to pull in rough, short breaths.

"Come on, Will. _Fight it_."

Halt pulled one of the extra pillows free from beneath Will's head in order to straighten his wind stream. As an afterthought, he took the young man's chin in one hand and the back of his head with the other before tilting it just so, further expanding the air flow from his nose to his lungs. The harsh, ragged breathing decreased somewhat, and Will looked more calm.

Halt sighed and sat back. Once more, he had done to the best of his abilities.

_Noon_, he told himself suddenly, surprising even himself. _Noon, I will ride to the village and find a healer. The odds of one being anything more than a witchdoctor are slim, but still there. Physicians this close to the Mountains of Rain and Night must know a cure for Wargal venom_.

He wished Pauline was there. Or Horace. Gilan, Crowley, Alyss—_anybody_. He needed someone to come and either look after Will or go find help in Halt's place. The Ranger grunted.

_If wishes were fishes, no one would go hungry_, he thought flatly. _And they sure as hell get nowhere in life_.

The idea of leaving Will alone for two days terrified him. Again, his son would only be placed in whatever danger that may come the cabin's way, being no help to Will. If only Crowley were at least ten years older...

_There I go again_, Halt scowled, standing and starting to pace.

The cabin couldn't be in a worse location. Far from any castle—where there was sure to be real medical help—at least a day's ride from any village, no pigeon coup for aerial messaging... Terrible. Just terrible. Poor planning on someone's part—unless it wasn't meant to be a Ranger's base. It was probably a place for hunters to stay in the peaks of seasons. Halt was just looking for something to blame.

_Coffee_, he thought suddenly. _I'll make coffee. If that doesn't rouse him, nothing will_.

He went to the water barrel outside, then scowled again as he realized that it was empty. He didn't like the thought of using pond water, even if it was going to be boiled. He recalled from the map he'd studied earlier that there was a stream a hundred yards into the trees. That was a better plan.

He told Crowley where he was going, strung his longbow and slipped away into the trees, automatically blending with the shadows and foliage as though he belonged with them. Well, he _did_ belong with them. They were his faithful, reliant, unwitting allies. They had been for years, and would continue to be for many more to come, God willing.

The stream was wide and shallow, the waters cool and clean. Halt realized how tense he felt and splashed some on his face, rubbing more to the back of his neck. With a rejuvenated shiver, he dipped the kettle in and listened to the metallic slither as water rushed in to occupy the space, displacing the air.

When Halt straightened a few moments later, he grunted as though he had been crouching for hours.

_Getting too old for this_, he grumbled inwardly, then smirked. Too old to make_ coffee?_ Bah!

Still, he could not ignore his stiffened knees, ankles and hips as he ghosted back towards the cabin.

Crowley was inside when he returned, Ebony lying on his feet to keep them warm but with her gaze locked on Will. Every once in a while, she licked her lips or whimpered softly.

Saying nothing, Halt rested his strung longbow near the corner and found some bread and strawberry preserve. He made his son breakfast and then turned to the coffee.

"Papa? What about Ebony?"

Halt blinked, then realized what Crowley was talking about. "What does she eat?"

"Whatever we eat. Wabbit and pheasant."

Wabbit? Oh, _rabbit_.

"I assume there are snares," said Halt, and Crowley nodded. "I'll check them later, okay? Now, eat up."

He fetched a pre-measured ration of coffee grounds and added them to the kettle, which hung on a rotatable arm over the fire. The familiar, tantalizing aromas of the rich brew soon filled the laden air. For a moment, Halt was back in the woods, sitting around the fire with Will and Sir Horace on a journey through his homeland in the west. Or perhaps chasing the remains of a religious cult south, out of Pictica and into northern Araluen.

Halt was deep in his thoughts, moseying down memory lane, when he heard the voice that had become such a large part of his life over the past ten years.

"Halt?" Will said weakly. "Your bow's still strung."

* * *

Once Halt managed to calm an excited Crowley down enough, he put a hand on his former apprentice's shoulder.

"You all right, then?" he asked, only withholding his own elation by the greatest of willpower. Sometimes it was difficult to retain his reputation of being a cold, indifferent curmudgeon.

Will smiled, albeit weakly. "I'll die unless I get some of that coffee."

He looked haggard, exhausted. His fever had gone down but sweat still beaded his upper lip and forehead, matting his hair into thin, dark strands. His hand trembled when he clasped it in Halt's, who helped him sit up a little.

Coffee, in actuality, did do him some good. Mixing it with Will's desired amount of honey, Halt handed him a mug and watched as his pupil's limbs strengthened a little and colour returned to his cheeks.

"Ah, that's good," Will said, finally stopping to breathe. "Nothing like fresh Arrida coffee..."

"Made by me," said Halt, deadpan, but with a smile waving behind his eyes.

Will's eyebrow jerked minutely. "At least you remembered to put in the coffee grinds this time."

Halt threw up his hands. "You're never going to let that go, are you?" He had once, indeed, forgot to put in coffee grinds one morning, and poured everyone a fresh mug of hot water. Gilan was with them at the time, and had stared blandly at Halt for a good minute or so until the tired, extremely distracted older Ranger noticed what he had done. Will had just sniffed his cup and pretended to take a savouring sip, praising Halt on making the best pot of hot water in Araluen. Halt could have thrown his boots at him.

Even _now_ he could have thrown his boots at him.

Halt muttered something incoherent and turned away to make soup, and Will thought he caught something along the lines of "puffin-brained tosspot," but he couldn't be sure.

"What happened to me?" he finally asked, cupping the coffee close. His hands were cool, and the warmth was a nice reprieve. "Did I pass out?"

Halt dipped his head slightly. "You could say that. Why didn't you say you never got proper care for your leg?"

Will shrugged. "I felt fine after applying regular poultices, and getting it stitched and bandaged...Well, not _fine_, but—"

"You didn't think about the venom in the Wargal's claws."

The younger man looked away, sheepish. "I didn't know. I don't remember learning about that at all." It wasn't as though he'd had very much experience fighting Wargals. After the war with Morgarath, the bearlike creatures, their minds once more free, moved back into their mountains and stayed there, quiet and harmless.

Halt forced back his dark look, but still remained stern. "Well, you're not out of the deep end yet. I must bring a healer here, quickly."

"I'll come with you—"

"No! No, not like this. The less you move, the better. The nearest village is just a day away. Granted, it'll be another day back with a person who might be as experienced with riding horses as a Skandian, but I'll take both Abelard and Tug."

"You'll have to give the healer Tug's secret," said Will reproachfully. Every Ranger held the secret password to riding his horse jealously, relinquishing it only in the direst of needs.

"I'll rent a horse there," Halt replied impatiently. "Will, there's no way around this. If you ride anywhere, the road will only take you to Kingdom Come."

"Where's Kingdom Come?" asked Crowley suddenly, curiously.

Halt looked down at his son, who stared back up at him, innocent and youthful. That poised another problem.

_I can't leave Crowley here in complete reassurance that he'll be safe_, he thought. _Even if Will's conscious most of the time, he may not be strong enough to draw a longbow in defence. But I certainly can't take Crowley with me without being slowed dramatically._

_What would Pauline do?_

That last thought startled Halt. Usually, he asked himself what he should do, as a Ranger. Never before had he asked what Pauline would do, even inwardly.

_He'll die without help_.

Crowley would be safe enough. There had been no bandit raids reported in the area for months, and the place was too isolated for a casual thief to come strolling by, in the market for anything shiny. And as long as the boy remained inside, bears and wolves wouldn't be an issue.

"Will," Halt said, turning. "I..." He stopped. The young man had fallen asleep. Checking his pulse, he was relieved to feel it beating strong, not as weak and fluttery as a baby bird like before.

Halt took the coffee from Will's limp grasp, placed it on a nearby counter and strode to the door, taking up his longbow and stringing it on one boot. "Crowley," he said as he bent the bow, "I'm going to go get fresh water for five days and see what those snares have caught. I trust Will dried extras, and has stocked up on other food?" The boy nodded. "Good. I'm going away for a few days. Trust me when I say, you _must stay here_. Do _not_ go outside. You hear me?"

"Where you going?"

"To get a healer for Uncle Will. He's still a little sick. I need you to be strong for him, okay?"

Again Crowley nodded, but a little less confidently. Halt crouched before him.

"Listen, lad. You have a heart bigger than you can imagine. Bigger than mine, bigger than your mother's. Will needs some of that to protect him, to give him something to hold on to. Understand?"

Crowley nodded a third time, with more assertiveness. Halt grinned warmly at him.

"You'll make a fine Ranger, lad," he said. "Better than me, better than Will."

The child grinned. "Nobuddy better than Uncle Will, Papa."

Halt chuckled. "Well, no, unless that thick head of his gets in the way and prevents him from noticing the obvious." _Like his own wound_, he added to himself.

Crowley straightened, shoulders back, chest out, tummy in. A real soldier. "I protect Uncle Will, Papa. Nevah fee-ah."

"I won't, boy," Halt replied, brushing the boy's hair once. "I won't."

* * *

Tug seemed reluctant to leave where he knew his master remained, but after a few coaxing words, the shaggy little horse followed Abelard, without a lead rope, as trained.

Halt didn't quite push the beasts to their extremes, though instinct urged him to. Who knew how long Will would last without proper help. He had redressed the wound just before he left, and shown Crowley how to keep Will's fever down. He had also made sure there was enough food, water and firewood for over a week, just in case, and made Crowley swear not to leave the cabin for anything. It wouldn't be fun, but at least there was Ebony for company. And protection.

Halt looked to the west. There were less than three hours until sunset. He would make the best of them.

* * *

The armoured man watched the old Ranger and two shaggy, small horses canter off into the woods, north, towards the village. He was downwind from them, strategically placed because he had been informed of the abilities of these Ranger horses. The beasts were intelligent and would have informed their master of the watcher's presence. They didn't look all that impressive to Septimus. At home, they would be used as mere pack ponies.

At first glance, Septimus might have looked like some kind of foot fighter. With small amounts of plate armour, including spaulders, a breastplate, vambraces and greaves, he took the part of a light-footed infantryman. A blood red cape and shirt gave him more of a look of high status, and black trousers and golden spurs sharpened his appearance like a whetstone.

A carved insignia on his breastplate, over his heart, signified his importance and his mission. An open-winged eagle holding the hilts of two crossed swords, circled by a laurel wreath. The symbol of the Munerian Games of Romena, Toscana, and that of his lordship, the warlord Aetius.

Septimus' leather-gloved hand tightened over the sword hilt at his side, the gleaming eagle-head pommel glinting in the descending rays of the sun. So close. _So_ close. Two minutes longer, and the old Ranger would have been his. Slippery serpents as they were, no man could always evade capture, especially when the captor was so desperate for someone as special as an Araluen Ranger.

He turned his attention to the little, unobtrusive cabin in the small clearing, close by a pond and backed by forestland, and smiled humorlessly. Rangers were notorious for their uncanny archery skill and insurmountable cunning. The latter factor would otherwise keep the young Ranger safe. But he was injured, Septimus knew, and not by some stray mutt. That would limit anyone's cognitive and mobile abilities, including witty, sly Rangers.

Septimus' "recruiters" were but a day behind. The Toscan simply _wriggled_ with anticipation: they had a Genovesan, a Bedullin of Arrida, a Seryson of the Mideast, even a Senshi of Nihon-Ja...The greatest warriors of exotic countries. The elite of the elite. And if rumours were anything to go by, a Ranger would only make the Munerian Games ascend to a whole new level of entertainment and invigoration.

There were many weeks between Araluen and Romena. Time enough to beat the young man back into shape before the Games.

"You're mine, Araluan," Septimus hissed, emerald eyes narrowing at the doomed cabin.


	4. Deception

**Ba ha ha ha! Thanks to Luvergirl of Books, I now know that I've been putting "Tuscan" instead of "Toscan" XD I guess I was thinking of Tuscany, the Italian region...or perhaps of the Tuscan Panini sandwiches we make at the place I work...Mmmm, Paninis...**

* * *

~4~ Deception

It must have been a long and boring day for Crowley. Will did what he could to entertain the boy; he showed him the proper way to care for a saxe knife and longbow, explained how crawling slowly on his belly across a forest floor can be the fastest way to get anywhere (due to the avoidance of getting caught) and he told him stories about his adventures with Halt and Horace, over seas and through forests and across deserts.

At least, he did so when he wasn't asleep.

The young Ranger felt worse with every passing hour, but he hid it for Crowley's sake. Showing weakness would only scare the child...but he just wanted to close his eyes and never lift them again...

"Uncle Will? Papa says you hafta stay awake."

Will cracked an eye open. He recognized the lie straight off, and was on the brink of reprimanding Crowley for it when he realized that it was because the boy worried constantly for him. Will knew his pain. He had once spent several days watching Halt teeter on the brink of his own demise, after he had been poisoned by a Genovesan about six years ago. The Ranger had worried every time his mentor closed his eyes, fearing that it would be the last time.

"'M awake," Will said sluggishly, rubbing his eyes. He winced. His whole body ached and throbbed. A fist pounded inside his chest as though he'd run fifty miles. This was due to dehydration, he figured, but he didn't want to drink up all the water supply, nor absorb so much that he would have to haul himself painfully to his feet to relieve himself.

_Coffee, though_, he thought. _Some nice hot coffee_...

He wouldn't even think of asking Crowley to make some. He didn't want the boy handling hot water near an even hotter fire. The night before, Will had made the mistake of getting up to prepare a stew for their supper himself, telling Crowley to relax and stay away from the flames. He still had the bump to prove where he had cracked his head on the floor when he fainted again.

"Uncle Will?"

His eyes had closed again.

"Eat something, peas?"

"_Please_," the Ranger replied automatically. "It's _please_, not peas."

Will pictured Crowley's face screwing up in concentration. "P-pweas?"

_Close enough_, the man thought with a small smile, and forced his eyes open again. The boy was holding a plate of dried rabbit and grapes. The sight of food churned Will's stomach like butter long past its due date, but he forced himself to accept the platter.

"Thanks, lad," he said, smiling, but Crowley didn't return the smile.

"Eat it. Don' hide it. I seen you hide it. Don' hide it. Eat."

Will met his gaze, which was level and more mature than it should be for a child his age. Now more than ever, he saw the stony resilience of Halt and the cool, strong determination of Pauline, all in one convenient package that was this small boy.

_He'd make a great Ranger, should he chose that lonely path_, he thought. With that, he forced himself into a sitting position.

"All right, Crowley. You say eat, so I eat."

He took it one tidbit at a time, under the careful, hawk-like supervision of his nephew all the while. More than once, Will nearly fell asleep with the food halfway to his mouth. Crowley would prod him awake then, with harsh words only a four-year-old could make cute.

"Eat yer grapes, Ranger Will, afore I make yew!" he ordered, back ramrod straight, chest out like a commanding officer.

"Yes, m'lord," Will replied meekly, biting one of the vine fruits in half to make its journey to his belly less tormenting. There were six of them, all that remained on the plate.

It was after the second grape that he felt the familiar swells of nausea rise, and at the same time, he saw Crowley's eyes widen.

"Uncle Will! You all green!"

The Ranger's stomach clenched, and his supper rose into his throat. It was by sheer determination – and luck, most likely – that he managed to swallow it back before it came too far up. Even so, he could not withhold the agonized groan that was summoned by his burning throat and roiling innards.

"Uncle Will, dink this!"

Dink? He felt Crowley shove a cup of water into his hands. Oh, _drink_.

_This kid is adorable_, Will thought, before collapsing against his pillows in a dead faint once again.

* * *

Ebony's low growl aroused him. Or perhaps it was his screaming leg.

Tiny bits of sand rolled under his eyelids as he lifted them with considerable effort, but Will stifled the groan that would only signal to the intruder that he was awake. For some reason, having to keep quiet seemed to make him ache all the more.

Had he been anyone else but who he was, Will would not have heard Ebony's warnings. Years of discipline had honed his instincts to sharp barbs that snagged on anything that drew too near. Now, he kept his breathing deep and heavy, much like young Crowley's just across the room, though he desperately wanted to clutch his burning leg and moan in self-pity. He might as well cut his own throat with his saxe knife if he collapsed to the temptation.

Instead, Will made two small _tsk_-ing sounds by sucking on his teeth, silencing Ebony and reassuring her that he had acknowledged the danger and she could fall silent. The collie stilled in the darkness, wherever she was. Will couldn't see a thing. The ragged curtains blocked out any light, be it from moon or stars. He didn't see so much as torchlight flickering outside.

Will strained his ears for any kind of sound. Voices, footsteps, animals scavenging, anything. He heard nothing...until the creak.

It wasn't the usual sigh of the cabin as it settled itself. It was the squeaky first step of the veranda, a sound Will had heard countless times in his stay there.

The night seemed to hold its breath. Will certainly was, until he remembered to keep a deep, slow breathing pattern, that is.

Crowley muttered something in his sleep and rolled over. Will thought he could feel Ebony's tension in his own muscles, and he had to swallow the urge to stand and arm himself. His longbow was strung and beside the bed, he knew, and his saxe and throwing knives were under his pillow. Where was his quiver? Oh yes, hanging on the bed post.

In his mind's eye, the young Ranger conjured an outline of the cabin. It was basically one large room, with a kitchen at the front and living space in the back, and then a small storage place to the left of the door. Four windows, two along the wall his bed sat against, one by the kitchen and the fourth across from him, just to the right of Crowley. Very open, very exposed. Of course, close-quarters or spacious, Will had very little strength to fight. He could tell that by just lying there. He doubted he would even be able to draw his sixty-pound draw weight longbow half way, if that.

Minutes crawled by with the enthusiastic haste of a garden snail. Will had retained the sleep breathing pattern for so long, he caught himself actually dozing several times. Snapping awake by pinching the tender skin of the back of his upper arm, he glanced from curtained window to curtained window as best he could while lying down, letting his eyes adjust to the feeble light. Ebony didn't make another sound, but he could still sense her alert.

Was it even a person outside? It could be an animal, snuffing around the lean-to stable, curious about the smells of the horses not currently occupying it. But then who stepped on the front step?

Crowley sniffled. "Papa?"

_Be still!_ Will wanted to hiss, but he curbed his tongue. The boy might just be talking in his sleep. He certainly sounded groggy. But then a bed frame creaked, and the Ranger knew that Crowley had stood up. _No, no! Get back in bed!_

His own cot was even more squeaky. If he stood, he surrendered the element of surprise back to the mysterious trespasser.

Small bare feet padded along the floor. Will could see a dark blur making for the front of the cabin and the kitchen, where there was a water jug. There were no other sounds, and the Ranger risked a bare whiff of a whisper: "Crowley." He softened his consonants as best he could without sounding like mush.

The boy certainly heard him, for he stopped, fortunately wise enough to say nothing.

"Away, door," Will continued briefly, careful not to use any S's, which would carry like a shout over water in the silence.

A long pause, then he heard Crowley retreat. What he hadn't anticipated, however, was that the boy was retreating towards Ebony, who was still lying on the floor. There was a brief commotion as Crowley stepped on her paw – she remained still, but the shock jolted a small gasp from the youth's lips and he staggered into the wall.

Will winced. The tiny sound might as well have been the blare of a blown conch shell. The air grew tense, pulled taunt like a drum skin. Will felt he could reach out with his saxe knife and slice it open. Speaking of which...

He reached for the blade in the darkness, feeling beneath his pillow for the hilt. He pulled it out soundlessly, discovering as he did so that his palms were sweaty. Nevertheless, the comforting grip of the blade reassured him.

A minute passed. Two minutes. Five. Will inwardly admired Crowley's patience – he had yet to move from where he'd caught his balance after treading on Ebony's paw.

And still, nothing more from outside.

This was a very frustrating moment in situations like these. It was when a man would begin to doubt himself, doubt his senses. Had he heard something after all? Had he only imagined it? Had it only been the last threads of a fleeting dream?

_There_ was _something_, Will told himself insistently. _I heard something, Ebony heard something. Some pressure had triggered the step's creak of protest. Something is out there_.

_And whoever it is knows about Ranger feints_.

What's that supposed to mean? That he's an Araluan? Possibly, but words flow as freely as air. It could just as easily be a foreigner with an ear for the locals. What did he want, then? And at this time of night?

The trotting hooves and snort of a horse came and stopped so unexpectedly that Will's hazy mind almost didn't register it. A moment later, the familiar thud of two feet hitting earth as someone dismounted. There was no effort to conceal sound this time.

When three bashes on the door rattled the whole cabin, Will nearly jumped out of his trousers. However, he did spring to his feet, but he then immediately keeled off to the side, his leg on fire. In a frantic attempt to regain his balance, the foot of his injured leg came down...and stepped on Ebony. The collie panicked and tried to flee, which caused Will to stumble over her and crash face-first into the wall.

Well, subtlety and secrecy was out of the question now. A man called from outside, a startled exclamation, asking what happened.

Will just gasped, slivers of ice shooting up his leg, right to his bones. His vision swirled like ink in water, and a miniature drummer with two mallets was giving its all inside his head. He opened his mouth and said something exceedingly dignified, like, "Ow."

"Uncle Will! You got an owie! I get you water jug!"

"No, Crowley! Just...just stay put."

More bashes on the door. Will glared in that general direction.

"Are you all right in there?" the trespasser called. "I'm a physician. I can help you."

A physician? What was a physician doing here? Wait...

"Halt?" _No!_ Will could call back his outburst all night if he was foolish enough. Instead, he mentally kicked himself; he had just given away the name of the man who went looking for a healer. What if the stranger outside was an imposter?

"Your friend, Halt, sought me in the nearest village, the place where I grew up," the man called through the door. "But as soon as we got back here, he saw someone, or something, prowling around outside the cabin. It left, and Halt followed, telling me to come here. Will, right? Will Treaty?"

The Ranger bit his cheek, contemplating. The pain in his mouth did nothing to distract him from the agony in his leg, which only worsened the longer he stood there.

"What does Halt look like?" he demanded suspiciously.

There was a pause. "Ah, I see. You do not trust me. He is old, grey-bearded, and very...grizzled. Doesn't talk much."

Will was not convinced. Anyone with ears and eyes could describe Halt that way.

The supposed physician continued, "...He warned me this may happen. But he also told me to tell you, 'Berkart Falk got what he deserved. However, the story would have been better if you'd shoved him inside that boulder after all.'"

Will sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. No one had overheard that conversation between him and Halt, else their presence would have been detected by Ebony and the horses.

"Stay back there, Crowley," he said softly, and staggered drunkenly for the door. He _really_ wanted the pain to go away. Especially now, as it forced him to crumple and crash into the kitchen cabinet.

"Are you all right in there?"

No,_ I'm not all right! _Will snapped inwardly, but instead, he called, "Never better."

_Wait. My bow._

He didn't want to face whoever it was outside without his prime weapon. It would do little good in close-quarters, but it would serve well as a warning.

He silently indicated Crowley to bring the bow to him, and the boy carried it and the quiver of twenty-four arrows over. When Will slung the quiver straps over his shoulder, he realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but the Silver Oakleaf necklace of the Ranger Corps hung about his neck. His bare chest glistened in the feeble light, glistened with sweat. The sight of it reminded him of his dizziness, and he swayed.

_Confound it!_ he growled groggily, keeping his saxe knife in his belt and his longbow in his left hand. With his right, he reached for the door.

"Stay back there," he hissed to his nephew, who nodded warily, eyes wide in the darkness.

Turning back to the door, Will reached for the lock, though he'd much rather turn around and stagger back to his warm, comfortable bed. His eyelids felt like a thousand pounds.

_Wake up, wake_ up!

The face revealed when he finally opened the door was a young, friendly one, if starlight was not proving deceitful that night. The his sandy hair was long and curly, and he was slight of build. He looked no older than Will had been when he'd received the honourable Silver Oakleaf.

The young man's eyes danced with innocence and he smiled widely. Will didn't trust him.

"_You're_ a physician?" he asked doubtfully. The youth's smile never flickered, but he shifted, the wood veranda creaking underfoot. He seemed otherwise unfazed by the longbow and saxe knife.

"Yes. Well, not _completely,_ yet. But I swear to you, I know my infections and basic injuries. My master is looking after a sickness that has spread throughout the village, and so sent me in his stead." His smile remained, as though that were the sole reason why Will should believe him.

It must have been the Ranger's unwavering, unyielding stare that eventually broke the smile after about ten silent seconds. The physician—or physician's _assistant_—shifted again, adjusting the strap of his satchel over one shoulder.

"W-Wargal wound, yes? Halt told me you have a Wargal wound. On your right leg. Apparently, you've been experiencing dizziness? Constant fatigue? Sheer agony in—?"

"Yes, yes," Will grumbled. He usually wasn't crabby. It was just the constant, throbbing pain his leg happily delivered him. "Come in."

"You should be lying down. Here, I'll help you."

Will let him steer him back to the bed, and then gratefully flopped onto it, his head propped on a pair of pillows.

"I'm Julius. Do you have candles? Flint?"

Will pointed sluggishly, then waited while Julius lit candles and the hearth. The assistant jumped when he saw Crowley standing silently in the corner.

"Oh, dear boy! I didn't see you there! You must be a full Ranger by now, eh?"

Will saw a proud smile split Crowley's face.

"I silent as da wind!" the boy announced, his lisp more pronounced in his pleasure. "I fee-ah no monsters! I fee-ah no bandits! I wide horses and shoot bows and dink coffee! Imma good Ranger!"

"That you are, laddie, that you are. Now," said Julius, turning back to Will. "Let's see that leg."

The Ranger tried not to stiffen or gasp as his calf was prodded, but Julius seemed to recognize his pain instantly.

"Sensitive, is it? Well, we'll just cut here..."

He took out a knife and sliced the cotton pant leg around at the knee, then along the inner seam. Will winced every time his skin was pressed on, which was why the physician apprentice didn't simply roll the leg up.

Julius then tried to pull the cut legging off, but it was sticking to the bloodied bandages.

"Oh my," he muttered, grimacing.

Will couldn't raise himself up to see the damage himself, nor to find out whether or not the black veins of the slightly unorthodox infection had retreated from his flesh. Julius shook his head, which Will didn't take as a good sign.

"Hm. I see now. You received this wound how long ago?"

Will explained the Wargal attack in the Mountains of Rain and Night. He found himself nodding off, but managed to avoid speaking of the full mission. However, the assistant seemed to know all about it already, which seemed odd to Will. But he couldn't figure out why.

"Yes, I heard about Falk and his lot up in the Mountains," Julius said, applying some herbs to the Wargal wound gently, using water they had heated on the hearth fire. "Lost their rightful land just because Falk was being an arse. Can't imagine he's too popular now!"

"How d'you know of Falk?" Will slurred.

"Lots of gossip in these parts."

Will's tongue felt thick, like a chunk of boiled leather. It was painful to keep his eyes open. Why were the candles so bright?

"What're...you givin' me?"

Julius was now bandaging the wound. "Oh, the customary poultice that will eliminate the Wargal venom quickly and utterly. It's been used countless times before, and proven effective every time. Plus something to help you sleep."

"Sleep..."

"Hey, boy. Be a good lad and bring me some fresh water, will you? However much you can carry will be fine."

Crowley stood. "We have fwesh water right here—"

"No, I mean _fresh_ water. Real fresh. Like, right-from-the-stream fresh. There is a stream here, yes?"

"Over dere." Crowley must be pointing.

Will frowned. _Wait. Something's wrong..._

"Can you get some for your father? Real quick there—"

Crowley giggled. "Him not my father! Him my uncle! Uncle Will da Ranger!"

Julius laughed too, but to Will's fuzzy ears, it sounded forced. "Okay, for your uncle then. Here's a bucket for you."

Will couldn't think straight anymore. But some thread of doubt, a wriggle of alarm, was poking him in the forehead. _Hey, wake up!_ it seemed to say.

"But Papa said stay here. No leave cabin until he be home. Uncle Will say dat, too!"

_Did I say that?_ Will tried to look at his nephew, but his head just more or less flopped over to his other shoulder, so that he was looking into the cabin and away from the wall. The light of the candles and fire hearth was painful, which was why he'd turned away in the first place. _Did I tell him to stay here? Hm, guess I did. But why?_

"Well, I'm sure he'll let you step out for just a minute for fresh stream water. He really needs it," said Julius sincerely. If an imposter could be sincere.

"...Okay," said Crowley, slow and careful. Will heard the door creak.

_So nice of him to get fresh water for me_, he thought airily, sinking like a ship into the depths of sleep. _Such a nice boy_...

"Yes, you go ahead and sleep," said Julius, patting Will on the shoulder. "I'll just take this nasty knife away. Can't have you use—rolling over it in your sleep."

Will said something along the lines of, "Thang...you..." in a slurred, dozy drawl as Julius took the saxe knife from his belt. A coarse wool blanket was pulled to cover his bare torso, and then only the mast of his ship remained above the waves of oblivion.

Waves. Water. Crowley's getting water. Crowley left the cabin!

"Whoa, there now! Don't get up!"

Will felt Julius restrain him, but fought back as best as his numbed muscles would allow. They felt like useless sacks of sand.

"Crowley!" he called, barely over a whisper. What had Julius drugged him with?

Ebony began to growl. Will couldn't see where she was. He pulled away from the physician apprentice and rolled to the floor, murmuring incoherently as he tried to stand. He hacked, as if something was caught in his throat, then felt someone grab his arms to haul him upright.

"Up you get, _amico_. Back to your bed with you." Julius' tone sounded sharp. More commanding. Nervous. Not only that, but it would seem that he had an accent. Perhaps he was a foreigner?

But didn't he say he grew up in the village? And what the blazes is an amico?

Will stood, to find his injured leg completely numb. Only Julius prevented him from keeling off to the side in a drunken haze or collapsing.

But Crowley. Where's Crowley?

"You're a strong one, aren't you."

Will felt more pressure pulling him back, keeping him away from the door.

"Lemme go."

"You must sleep, Will Treaty. Sleep."

"Sleep—no. Crowley. Lemme _go!_" With that last outburst, Will threw himself forwards, struggling to get to the door. He'd clearly surprised Julius—if even that was his real name—for he escaped his grasp and lurched for the front of the cabin.

Ebony barked, snarls in between. Upon catching his balance, Will placed his hand on his bow, leaning on the wall next to the exit. He didn't recall leaving it there, but he wasn't about to complain.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Suddenly, Julius was there, pulling the longbow away from Will's feeble hold. "None of that, now."

"Move!"

Will shoved the physician apprentice back and grasped the door handle, yanking it open just as he heard Julius say, "Bad choice, _amico__._"

Will had only to see the glint of steel out in the night to fully realized that he'd been deceived.


	5. Capture

**I swear by all that is good in this world, I don't usually take this long to update. Times to write have been scarce recently, but I'm seeing a bit of wriggle room approaching. A bit, mind. Anyway, thanks again for all this support! I seriously hadn't expected so much!**

**Warning ~ foul language in another language.**

* * *

_Will threw himself forwards, struggling to get to the door. He'd clearly surprised Julius—if even that was his real name—for he escaped his grasp and lurched for the front of the cabin._

_Ebony barked, snarls in between. Upon catching his balance, Will placed his hand on his bow, leaning on the wall next to the exit. He didn't recall leaving it there, but he wasn't about to complain._

"_Ah, ah, ah!" Suddenly, Julius was there, pulling the longbow away from Will's feeble hold. "None of that, now."_

"_Move!" _

_Will shoved the physician apprentice back and grasped the door handle, yanking it open just as he heard Julius say, "Bad choice, amico."_

_Will had only to see the glint of steel out in the night to fully realized that he'd been deceived._

₪ † ₪

~5~ Capture

With barely a thought, Will spun around, fist balled, to smash Julius' nose into his brain – an action he wasn't particularly fond of, but with Crowley in danger, he would happily rip the imposter's throat out.

Julius was ready. Or, perhaps, Will was too slow. The physician dodged around the strike and casually shoved the Ranger with both hands. Will staggered out onto the veranda, swinging his arms out for balance. He tried to catch himself on a post but his lifeless leg betrayed him yet again, and he crashed down the stairs. Fortunately, there were only two, and the fall wasn't bad. He landed on his back, cringing as his head spun.

Ebony was barking up a frenzy, but then she became muffled as Julius slammed the door shut, trapping her inside.

"Down, mangy mutt!" he snarled, his Toscan accent thick now.

Will felt cool night air on his face, a faint tint of rain on the breeze. The stars were bright overhead, but they were dimming as Julius' drug coursed through his veins. He said something intelligent like, "Mm _gack_," and groaned as he rolled onto his front.

Footsteps, heading purposely towards him. In a wild reflex, Will lashed out, aiming at waist height. Someone cried out in surprise and leaped away, but there were more people coming, and they surrounded the Ranger like a pack of ravenous wolves. There must have been a dozen of them, all chattering and jeering in a foreign language. Will felt that he should recognize the tongue, but his brain was too befuddled to pull out a name.

"_This_ is an Araluan Ranger?"

Someone grasped Will from behind, hooking his hands beneath his armpits and hauling him upright. His head lolled, but he fought to retain consciousness.

_I will not pass out, I will not pass out, I will not pass out—Crowley!_

Someone cruelly prodded his chest, and he smelled onion breath.

"This sod couldn't win an arm wrestling match, let alone fight a Munerian Champion!"

"Don't be hasty to presume so much, Sixtus," said another voice, Julius. "These Rangers know how to fight...from a distance. This longbow has a sixty-pound draw weight."

Will heard a grunt of exertion, and the men surrounding him laughed harshly, tauntingly.

"Too much for you, Julius?" the man holding Will sneered, and the Ranger had no doubt that Julius was trying to draw his longbow.

"_V__ai cazzo tua madre!_" Julius barked.

Will heard a loud shattering then, and closed his eyes in despair. He knew that it was the sound of his longbow being snapped in two.

"The great peacekeepers of Araluen," said another kidnapper. "Reduced to nothing without their curved sticks."

"Giovanni, where's the boy?" Julius demanded.

"What do you need a brat for?" Giovanni whined. He was the man holding Will up. "We let him go. May he get eaten by _orsi__._"

"_Idiota__!_ He could have been useful!"

_Yes, run, Crowley_, Will thought sluggishly.

"Go find him, now!"

"But—" Giovanni grunted as Will's elbow swung back and jabbed into his ribs. He dropped the Ranger in shock, but Will didn't collapse.

_I must give Crowley time_, he thought, and balled his fists.

Some subconscious reserve of energy, already brimming with adrenaline and rage, dragged him from the sea of unconsciousness. He attacked the men surrounding him. He caught one in the throat and another in the sternum, sending both of them back in pain and surprise. Will kicked back at a third, and he heard Giovanni gasp and double over, holding his groin.

"Seize him! Restrain him!"

Fury and determination to protect his nephew was his main weapon. Will lurched towards the man before him, who recoiled, too shocked to react when Will stole the dagger out of his belt and slashed him across the throat. The man gargled, eyes wide, and fell over, much to the outrage of the other attackers.

"He's one man! Get him! Bring him down!"

Julius' orders were redundant. Will was already burning through the last of his energy reserve, which had bought Crowley about ten seconds. Perhaps the distraction was enough to make the men forget about the boy entirely. In any case, Will struck four more men before sagging in exhaustion and drowsiness, the results of the fever and the drug usurping his own body. The kidnappers scented blood and moved in for the kill.

The first fist caught Will in the eye. He went down in blind pain. Someone's boot contacted his ribs, right around his liver, and he curled up to protect his innards as another attacker stepped on his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife he'd stolen. Striking back was fruitless; every time he tried to punch or kick, it left a part of his body exposed, which the assaulting men wasted no time driving their foot into.

"Stop, stop! Kill him and Commander Septimus will have your _coglioni__!_"

Will didn't know what a _coglioni_ was, but the threat of losing them certainly drove his attackers back.

He lay there on his side, a massive throb of pain. The cool grass was soft beneath him – a sharp contrast, a cruel mockery, to the agony he was in. He'd been ganged up on once before, by three bullies from the Redmont Battleschool, when he was a boy. Then, it had been only three attackers, who were a few years older than him. He hadn't been drugged, and Horace and Halt had come to his rescue before things got fatal. But Halt wasn't coming to his rescue. And Horace was miles to the north, blissfully oblivious to his best friend's distress. This time, Will was alone.

Julius cursed violently, shoving men aside as he came to stand above the Ranger. He looked down at the pitiful man, lip curling in distaste. Will's own lip was split, he saw. There was a cut on his forehead from kissing a Toscan's boot, and a lot of his body was going to be purple by dawn. The Ranger was breathing, at least, and Julius sighed in relief. If he'd been killed, they would have a hell of a time finding another Ranger to easily ambush and subdue. Commander Septimus would not have been impressed.

"Bring the waggon," Julius ordered, speaking entirely in Toscan now. "Tie his hands and feet. Ducio, go inside and find a mottled green cloak..." He trailed off, staring down at the Ranger, whom he'd thought unconscious. Will Treaty was stirring, rolling onto his front and placing his hands on the ground to push himself up. The man must be in absolute agony, yet there he was, picking himself up as though getting assaulted by a dozen muscled Toscans was an everyday misfortune.

Julius felt a stir of excitement. Lord Aetius and his Arena would pay a fine price for a determined warrior such as this Will Treaty.

"What do we need his cloak for?" one Toscan, Ducio, complained. "Or his knives? He can get new ones in Romena."

Julius hefted the double-scabbard belt that he had taken from the cabin, complete with throwing and saxe knife. "Septimus wants each Champion to have the weapons of his trade," he snapped, turning on Ducio and ignoring Will. "His cloak will make a fine trophy when he dies. And...wait." The physician looked back at the Ranger and saw a silver oak leaf necklace hanging about his neck. He grinned. That would work better than a cumbersome cloak.

"But you broke his bow!" Ducio protested. "And how am I supposed to get in there with the dog guarding the place?"

"Kill the dog," Julius said simply. "We'll tell Septimus that the bow was an accident. Just do it, Ducio, or do I have to call your mother to hold your hand?"

Ducio grumbled but left to do what he was told, drawing a _gladius_ sword free of its scabbard as he went. Julius, meanwhile, turned back to Will, who swayed but was glaring at the Toscan with such vehemence and dark rage that Julius took a step back, blinking, throat dry with fear.

"But...what...?" Then he realized what he'd done and took two steps forward, meeting the Ranger in the eye. "Take a good look around, Araluan," he said. "This will be the last time you see your country for a _very_ long time." Julius tried to smile wolfishly, but it was difficult to assert his authority over this man when he stared so unwaveringly. Julius scowled. "On your knees, _cane bastardo_."

Will stubbornly remained standing, so a brute behind him grabbed his shoulder and kicked him in the back of the legs, sending him to his knees. Julius sneered down at him.

"Don't take this personally, _amico_," he said sweetly. "We have nothing against you. In fact, we admire you. Lord Aetius admires you. It is a great honour to fight and die in the Munerian Games."

Will continued to glare defiantly, as though he were capable of literally shooting daggers from his eyes.

Julius was young, but he'd already seen much, much more than what many grown men have seen their entire lives. All was due to the Munerian Games of the Arena of Romena. For a moment, he felt a twinge of sympathy for the older man kneeling before him. After all, how was the Ranger to know that the years he'd spent tolerating gruelling exercises and training to reach where he was now would only amount to being thrown in a dusty, filthy arena with only his will to live?

But Julius knew he could not show weakness before the men. He had yet to truly prove himself worthy to lead. He decided to taunt the Ranger some more.

"You know what gave you away, don't you?" he said. As an afterthought, he switched to the Araluan accent he had used to get into the cabin in the first place. His father had always said he had a talent for tongue, be it for languages, accents, or simply getting what he wanted. He had pretty much bluffed his way into that cabin. He hadn't known if Will already told his companion, some man named Halt, of his adventures in the Mountains of Rain and Night. That was a bluff. A successful bluff.

"You made the mistake of making an enemy and not destroying him," Julius continued, answering his own question. He saw a flicker of confusion in the Ranger's eyes, and considered elaborating. He refrained. Now was not the time.

A waggon emerged from the gap in the trees, drawn by two white stallions. The carriage was unmarked, insignificant. Flat topped and painted black. Why black?

Will watched the waggon dully. The men around him must be fools. If an expert tracker like Halt was to find their trail, he would have no problems catching up to them – a carriage can't go through forestland, left continuous, unmistakable tracks, and attracted attention from villages, marked or no. Not only that, but counting the men around Will, there must be at least a dozen horses in addition to the waggon. Even if someone was to lag behind to cover their trail, their options were limited. Halt would find his former apprentice.

That is, if he wasn't dead.

Will shook that thought away. Thinking of something bad happening somehow makes that something happen. A superstition that he stood by on personal experience.

What Julius said troubled him. How could the Toscan have known about his mission in the Mountains of Rain and Night, and how the Ranger had threatened to shove Berkart Falk into a boulder? Julius couldn't have overheard the conversation with the troubled headman in the mountain village, could he? How long had he been following Will?

It took minimal thinking to realize what had happened. That, and recalling what Julius said about making an enemy but not destroying him. Berkart Falk, banished from his rightful lands because of his being unfit to rule and his atrocious behaviour towards Baron Geoffrey. Falk had told Julius, and probably this other man, Commander Septimus, about the events in the Mountains...

Will's adrenaline rush was gone. The drug that Julius had given him was finally claiming his body. He could feel it. He sagged, someone's large hand on his shoulder keeping him upright. He found that he had lost control of his hands and his jaw. His feet were going, too, and his neck. Julius must have given him some kind of paralysis drug to put him to sleep and force him to relinquish the ability to use his own limbs.

Darkness loomed to claim him, but he could still hear the goings on. He heard frenzied barking, then a slamming door, accompanied by the guffaws of his kidnappers.

"Why didn't you kill the dog?" Julius demanded, obviously talking to Ducio.

"That thing is a mad-beast! Devil spawn! Here's your damn cloak."

"What now?" asked another, Giovanni. His tone was coated in barely concealed disgust, probably because of the kick Will had delivered him in the crotch.

The Ranger was fading now, his tunnel vision becoming a wall of darkness. He slumped lifelessly with Julius' last order.

"Now," said the Toscan, "burn the cabin."


	6. The Face of Despair

~6~ The Face of Despair

Halt had barely stopped to rest the whole way to the village, switching from Abelard to Tug and back again every hour. The two faithful steeds took less than two thirds the time to reach the settlement than any other horse would, but they were still tired for it. Halt knew of the impracticality of getting a healer and leaving before the horses had proper rest. Not to mention the cruelty. They could do it, but it would be hard, even for them.

_To stay ahead, we must slow down_, he'd thought, finding an inn and renting a room. He took care of Abelard and Tug himself, trusting no one else to do it properly or carefully enough.

He'd slept for five hours until early evening, waking up tired, yet restless. Eating a little, he had then found his way to the local apothecary, and was glad to find someone who wasn't a witchdoctor. Halt had learned from the village that the physician was very avid in saving lives. He almost reminded the Ranger of Malcolm, a healer in the north – he, too, was one who didn't care about a patient's morality, only their health. Once Halt had told the village physician about Will's Wargal wound, he immediately offered his services. He'd made it clear that he was reluctant to leave his current patients, but his profession and sense of duty quickly won off.

Halt had told the healer to meet him by the stables early the next morning, ready to leave. Though Halt wanted to depart immediately, there were still limitations. The physician had to get ready, for one, and the Ranger needed to convince a villager to part with a strong, durable horse for a little while. Fortunately, this hadn't taken too long, not after the people recognized him as a Ranger. Ranger Halt, no less.

They'd left the next morning. The physician, Bromley, had limited horse riding experience, but he was better than the average Skandian, so that was a start. Halt pushed the healer and the borrowed grey as hard as he dared, not worried about Abelard or Tug. The grey's stamina was good, but not like the Ranger horses. They had to stop, too frequently for Halt's comfort, to rest and water the beast. Even Tug had seemed annoyed by their progress.

They might have made it otherwise. Now, they were but a mere sixteen or seventeen kilometres away from the cabin, by the Ranger's estimation. Night had fallen, and Halt had gone as far as he dared with the limited light.

There were the faintest hints of rain on the wind, but Halt ignored them. He set up a few low ground tents, just in case the rain came during the night. He brewed some coffee, inwardly pleased that Bromley wasn't partial to it himself, and ate a meagre supper apples and nuts, and a little cold meat from the village.

He took first watch that evening.

* * *

The bleaching colours of dawn were seeping into the eastern sky when Halt emerged from his tent. Thunderheads were slowly roiling in the south, drawing closer. It was going to be a wet ride home.

Halt waited impatiently for the aged physician to drag himself from the tent, aching and groaning. The Ranger shoved down and hid his own discomfort, disliking the fact that he wasn't getting any younger. He also ignored the wet patches on his knees from the morning dew. Something he could never get used to.

"We have only a few more kilometres," he said gruffly to Abelard, saddling him. "Up to it?"

The horse nickered, ears flickering. Tug did the same. It was not an acknowledgement to Halt's challenge.

"What?" he asked, as though the horses could answer him. "What is it?" A wind ruffled his roughly-trimmed hair. Was there something on the breeze?

He turned slowly, using his eyes to scan the trees surrounding their camp. It wasn't in the trees that alerted the horses, however, but over them. Halt's eyes rose, and he paled. A wide column of dark smoke bellowed up to the south. Fire.

"Something's wrong," he whispered. Bromley didn't know about the wonders of Ranger horses, and so had accepted the warnings as normal sounds.

"How do you know?" the physician asked. "What—? Wait!"

Halt did not wait. He launched into Abelard's saddle and kicked him into a gallop, Tug half a stride behind. The smoke was at least sixteen kilometres away, by his reckoning. The Ranger horses could easily gallop the whole way, but the physician's grey was another matter. It would have to follow as best it could.

Halt scanned the trees on either side of the road, watching for anything amiss, as he continued south for nearly twenty minutes, and the horrible wrenching in his stomach intensified. They were met by the stinging, icy rain half way, but the Ranger was not fazed.

"Go!" he yelled, urging his horse faster. Abelard's ears twitched at the sounds of his master's voice, and he immediately put on another burst of speed, Tug easily keeping pace. Halt's longbow was strung, and he swung it off his back to his left hand, already drawing an arrow in precaution. Less than a kilometre to go.

_We were so close last night_, Halt cursed inwardly. _So close! We should have ridden through the night, __to hell with our old bones!_

They rounded the last of the trees, still at full gallop, but Halt automatically pulled Abelard to a stop at the sight that splayed out before them. The horse squeaked in protest, hooves sliding in the mud, then stilled, eyes rolling and nostrils flared at the heavy smell of smoke and burning timber. Tug followed suit, nickering softly in warning.

"Still," Halt ordered, and both horses fell silent, knowing that their charge had seen the destruction.

The cabin, Will's temporary home, was nothing but a smouldering black mass of ruin. The rain had extinguished the fire, but not before it burned the structure to the ground. Ugly burnt pikes jabbed into the sky like used pyres, the charred stone chimney the only thing identifying the structure as once being a building. The thick stench of smoke was mingled with a familiar and ominous odour of burned flesh. He knew that it must have happened sometime in the latter part of the night, when he was asleep, else he would've seen the smoke reflecting the orange flames.

Halt dismounted mechanically, eyes locked on the black remains. The pillar of smoke had diminished slightly from the drenching rain, but was still large enough to attract attention. He would have to be wary, in case that attention was less than favourable.

Other than the light tinkling of falling rain and a distant growl of thunder, there was no sound.

Halt realized that he was holding his breath and let it out all at once, gasping.

"Crowley?" he croaked, barely loud enough to hear. "Will?"

He staggered forward, mud and puddles splashing underfoot, in search of tracks. He could see few. A sizable dent in the grass there, now filled with rainwater; a dropped dagger here, gleaming in the twilight-grey sky; a pair of continuous grooves, wheel tracks, brimming with water like miniature canals. If there were bodies, the attackers, whoever they were, had taken their dead with them.

Or... Halt moved to the cabin ruins, and eventually found the charred corpse that lay among them, the source of the rancid stench that mingled with the smoke. Oddly enough, there were two coins on the unfortunate's eyes, now streaked with soot. The invaders, whoever they were, didn't even have the decency to bury their own comrade. Unless it was...Will?

It was impossible to tell. It was definitely an adult, but the clothes and flesh had burned away, making identification impossible.

He stepped back, his foot brushing against something as he did so. He glanced down, and blanched. It was a longbow, lying in the soggy grass, snapped in half. Will's bow.

Halt cursed and closed his eyes. He told himself that it was rainwater running down his cheeks. Just rainwater.

"God," Halt muttered. The thunder was the only thing to reply. He kicked a pyre, jarring his leg and bruising his toes.

_No, no—_no! _Where are they?_

Halt rushed to the treeline, checking for indications of where Will could have taken Crowley. A rag tied to a bush, a sign cut into tree bark, and arrow stuck into the ground—_anything_. But he found nothing.

The broken, useless longbow told a thousand words. Something had happened to Will. What happened to Crowley?

He remembered the waggon tracks, and hastened back over to them. They came from the south, looped around, and returned to the south. Drawn by two horses, moving briskly. What tracks the rain hadn't washed away indicated that there were at least ten men, maybe more, unless there were a few running around in wonky circles, trying to make their numbers appear larger.

Halt picked up the knife he'd found in the grass. If there had been blood on it, it was long washed off by the rain. He inspected it closer, squinting at the insignia that had been carved onto a small bronze plaque that sat where the hilt and the cross guard intersected. It was an eagle holding two X-ed swords, ringed by a laurel wreath. Halt recognized the symbol. It was old, and one that he thought would never rise up again. The Seal of House Opus, of Lord Aetius, and that of the Munerian Games.

Halt thought that the so-called games had been disbanded years ago. They were considered immoral, cruel, _wrong_. In the city of Romena, a once magnificent centre of great prosperity, there was a colossal arena where the battles between Champions were fought for the amusement of anyone who could afford to watch. Men against men, women against women, both against large, vicious and exotic beasts. Slaves, prisoners of war, even volunteers were tossed together and given a chance to fight for gold or freedom.

But that was back when there was no true king of Toscana. Now with a monarch, the Munerian Games had been dissolved decades ago, and the founding family dishonoured.

Looking at that dagger, bearing the mark of the Games, it would seem that the head of that family, the Aetius, had emerged to establish the Arena once more, to bring it back to its former, bloody glory.

Halt blinked, pulling himself from memory lane. Why would the Toscans come here for recruiting Champions? It's a long way, and such endeavours were acts of war.

And what were the odds that they would find Will?

Halt found himself shaking with rage. He threw the dagger, watching it spin and hearing it whistle before it thudded into a pyre that was once part of the foundations of Will's cabin. He wanted to scream, he wanted to break something, particularly the necks of the people who'd taken Will, and possibly...

"Crowley," he gasped, throat closing. "My boy, my little boy..."

Abelard's comforting nickers sounded just behind him, and then the horse's warm, damp muzzle nudged Halt's shoulder. The man turned and hugged the beast's neck.

"I'm so sorry, Pauline," he whispered. There was a painful pressure in his chest. So painful, it made his eyes water. "So sorry."

He remained there, wallowing in self pity for the loss of his only son and his former apprentice. Taken from him in one, single, fateful night. Gone. All gone.

Abelard rescued him. With a sound not unlike a scoff, the horse pulled away and then butted his head hard enough against his master to knock him off balance.

"Abelard! What are you—" The beast hit him again, then tossed his head back several times, stamping a hoof and snorting with impatience.

_Look at you sorry sod! _he seemed to scold._ Whining and snivelling never got anyone anywhere!_

Halt felt his face, felt the hot tears there, and a shameful shroud settled around his heart as he realized what he was doing. In the face of despair, he had failed to realize that he was still alive, and, therefore, still capable of finding Will and saving his son from the kidnappers. The tracks were washing away in the rain, but that never stopped him before! There were other signs he could follow. He was a Ranger, trained to deal with any problem the world threw at him.

Halt prepared to mount Abelard, feeling the wings of hope lift his heart. He would follow to the best of his abilities, abilities that often proved priceless. A party of around a dozen had to leave tracks the rain couldn't wash away. It might require some coins to loosen a stiff tongue or three, but the Ranger always managed. He was Halt, as he heard Will and Gilan mention several times.

"Let's go, old friend," he said to his horse, and Abelard's ear twitched. He nickered, as did Tug, and for a moment, Halt felt foolish. Abelard had been warning him, not scolding him. But he didn't need their warnings now – he'd heard the sound himself. A sneeze, in fact, audible even through the rain.

He blinked. A sneeze? Who sneezed? It was definitely a human sneeze, one that was supposed to be stifled but was poorly done so.

His instincts went on a rampage. Perhaps someone had been sent back to wait for him? His eyes cast about warily, never stopping on one place for more than a second. Eyes tended to catch movement faster that way. His actions were rewarding – he saw the reeds surrounding the pond waver as though in a breeze. There was no breeze.

Halt dismounted and crept towards the reeds, bow raised and an arrow nocked. Against the charred black mass of ruin, it would be impossible to blend into anything. But whoever was in the grass would have seen him already anyway. His knuckles whitened around his bow.

"Reveal yourself," he ordered, content to wait until the stalker came to him. Nothing happened. Then he heard crying.

Okay, those in hiding didn't sneeze or cry unless they were completely mental.

Or a child.

_I don't believe it_...

"...Crowley?"

Halt noticed a few broken reeds by the edges of the mass. Any footprints had been washed away, but the bent reeds were sure signs of a person's passing. Someone was hiding, hiding from anything that was a potential danger.

"You little genius..."

He found Crowley a couple of minutes later, huddled on his side with an injured Ebony in a hollow created by the reeds. The collie growled, but with soothing motions with Halt's hands and the dog's recognition of him being Will's friend, she instead wagged her soggy tail. Halt winced at the burns the dog had sustained, then turned his attention to his son.

"Crowley."

The boy was crying softly, eyes closed, hands over his ears. He looked at Halt with the sound of his name, and burst into fresh tears. Without a word, he launched himself into the Ranger's warm embrace.

"I thought you never find m-me!" he wailed. "I wait here for days an' days!"

Halt was hugging his son so tightly he was afraid he would break his delicate little body.

"I'm proud of you, Crowley. I'm proud of you. Tell me," he released him and inched back, remaining in a crouch. "What happened?"

Crowley's tears freshened. "Bandits steal Uncle Will! He gone away!"

"Gone? They took him? Where? In the carriage?"

The boy nodded vigorously. "Papa, I thought you disappear! I afeared to come find you. I afeared you dead!"

Halt hugged his son again, heart aching. Will was gone. Kidnapped. Kidnapped by Toscans bearing the seal of the Munerian Games. But why? To be a Champion? What else could it be? It was known throughout the land that a Ranger could not be held for ransom. No matter what, the king would not—could not—relent and pay any price for their safe release. A Rangers' value would make them a target for greedy nobles and petty kings otherwise. In any case, every Ranger knew of the risks of captivity that sprung up everywhere, and prepared for them. Fortunately, it was difficult to take a Ranger captive.

Difficult, but not impossible.

In any case, Halt doubted that this was some inferior attempt to get a few barges of gold from King Duncan. No, this was a recruitment, a recruitment for the Games.

"We hafta find him, Papa! We hafta find Uncle Will!"

Halt flinched. His mind had wandered. "And we will, boy," he said gravely, looking into his son's eyes. "We will."


	7. Grave News on Swift Wings

**I know I could be apologizing for these long-in-the-coming updates, but you guys all know I'm not doing it of my own free will. There is...a force holding me back. An eternal, fickle, and often ambivalent force that prevents me from writing when I want for as long as I want.**

**The force: LIFE.**

* * *

~7~ Grave News on Swift Wings

Ebony had been burned when the "naughty bandits" torched Will's cabin. She had gotten out through a window, but there were scorch marks on her back that ran to her hindquarters, and more on her forelegs. The hair had been melted away and there were blisters on her skin. She growled when anyone besides Crowley tried to get near her.

"We're going to have to put her to sleep with this," said Bromley, the physician Halt had recruited from the village. He wasn't entirely unfamiliar with tending to animals, yet it wasn't his strong point either. But burns were burns, he'd already said.

He held up a vial of some kind of fluid. "Then she won't feel a thing."

"Crowley, can you coax her to drink this?" Halt asked his son gently. Crowley took the vial, but couldn't open it. "Here, let me." The Ranger uncorked it and passed it back. The boy sniffed it, and grimaced.

"It stinky," he said, wrinkling his little nose. "Ebony won't dink it."

"Could we put it in water?" asked Halt of Bromley, who nodded.

"It may take a little longer for it to take affect, but yes, it will work."

Ebony growled when Halt came too close to pass a dish of water to Crowley, the sleeping draft already stirred in. She still drank, lapping it up with her pink tongue, and Halt was content to sit back and wait.

They were back at the camp the Ranger and the physician had hastily abandoned when they spotted the smoke rising in the south, the remains of Will's cabin. It had been hidden enough from the road that no one had ruffled through it, if anyone had passed at all. Now, they had a fire going, a meal cooking and coffee brewing.

Bromley sat nearby with a jug of cool water, ready to apply and clean Ebony's wounds when the dog fell asleep. Crowley continued to pet her warm, silky neck. His eyes were still red and puffy from crying, but the tears had stopped.

Halt watched the boy, admiring his resilience for one so young. What he must have seen—a raging fire burning a safe haven to the ground, violence that was probably used against his guardian, watching as they dragged Will away, conscious or not—should have kept him crying until there were no tears left to cry. No doubt Crowley would be haunted by nightmares, or worse, night terrors. It was time like those when he would need his father's hand.

_But I can't be there for him_, Halt thought sadly. _I have to find Will_.

He had a plan, though he wasn't exactly driven by it. It involved riding for Castle Highcliff and getting in contact with the Ranger stationed there. Who was it? Oh yes, Ferin. Ferin had been on a mission to stomp out some rioters who were trying to create hell for the baron. They claimed the taxes were too high, though the tax rate had been lowered after the costs of the war against Morgarath were repaid, six years ago. Needless to say, a steady, reasonably low tax rate was "too much" for these rioters.

They had kept Ranger Ferin's attention, which was why Will, a member of the Special Task Force, had been dispatched instead of him to the Mountains of Rain and Night for the other restlessness brewing there.

Halt hoped that Ferin had done his task and would be able to take care of Crowley. He would send a message by carrier pigeon to Castle Redmont, letting Pauline know of what was afoot. No doubt she would gather a company—and of course go with them—to pick up their son with all haste. Word would also be sent on foot, because anything could happen to a pigeon. It would take a few more days on horse than by bird, but late was better than never.

Meanwhile, Halt would ride south after the Toscans, and Will. A clear route for them would be to find a port, a smuggler port, to sail to Gallica. Or, perhaps, straight around the continent to Toscana.

"Papa, I cold."

And all at once, Halt's plans seemed immaterial. Crowley needed his father, now more than ever.

He stood up and carried another blanket to his son, wrapping the youth up in a cocoon against the chill. Ebony was drugged beyond the point of caring, and so didn't growl at Halt's approach.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, and the boy nodded.

Halt ruffled his hair fondly and made his way over towards where a stew was brewing over the fire. It wasn't one of Will's stews, that's for sure, but it was hot and filling. Halt poured some into a wooden bowl and waited for it to cool before handing it to Crowley with a heel of bread and a spoon. By then, Ebony had fallen asleep, and Bromley was working on patching her up.

"Where they take Uncle Will, Papa?" Crowley asked, mouth filled with rabbit stew. Halt looked sadly to him, trying to smother his roiling emotions with little success.

"I don't know, boy," he replied softly, proud that he at least managed to keep a stony expression. "But I can tell you one thing – I will find him again, and bring him home. Then he'll have loads of more exciting stories to tell—"

"You said he was injured with Wargal venom," interrupted Bromley, and Halt looked to him. "If he doesn't get the proper care, it won't matter if you find him or not. He'll be dead."

If looks could kill...

Bromley lowered his gaze from Halt's fiery glower, and then the Ranger put a comforting arm around his son.

"He'll be fine, Crowley. I...I promise."

**Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ**

Gilan saw the impending storm, felt the oncoming wind, smelled the metallic rainfall but did not falter. He merely bowed lower over Blaze's pounding neck and rode on, hastening south as though a bristling horde of Temujai warriors was on his heels. His grave and urgent news was too important for something like the awesome forces of nature to impede.

The terraces and battlements of Castle Highcliff rose above the trees, the normally white-stoned walls a darkened grey with the looming weather front. About a hundred paces ahead, there was a fork in the road, one leading to the castle, the other, continuing south. The distance between the fork and the tall Ranger diminished with Blaze's every stride, and though urgency wanted to steer him right, to the south, logic pushed him left, to the castle. There was no way that he could find Halt on his own except by pure chance and fortune, things that were as fickle as canoes on an unfamiliar river, in his opinion.

"A bit further, old friend," he whispered to the mare, whose ears twitched at the sound of his voice.

Though he kept vigilant of the world around him, Gilan found his thoughts straying, mulling over the information he had been charged with delivering. Not for the first time, his teeth ground together in anger and anxiety. Strangers, Toscans by the sounds of things, had infiltrated Araluen and were slinking around the southern and western coasts. Their motivations were unclear, but their intentions were sharper than a broadhead.

They were hunting for Rangers.

Ranger Berrigan was the first to hear whispers of foreigners slipping along Araluen's back roads, being a travelling jongleur-agent that he was. But it was Ranger Andross who had been nearly taken first. Over a fortnight ago, the man had been asleep in his cabin when his horse in the stable alerted him through the thin wall to the presence of a stranger. Someone had come to him, knocking on the door of his hut like a beggar, asking for food and shelter. Though suspicious, Andross had indulged him, giving him sustenance and a bed to sleep in for the rest of the night. It was when he turned his back, though, that he suffered for his mistake.

The stranger was bidding his time when he was eating, not enjoying having food in his belly after so long. As soon as Andross turned away, the stranger swung a small wood axe he had stored in his ragged cloak and chopped through the Ranger's longbow that hung on the wall, instantly destroying his first level of offence. Andross still had his knives, however, and before the stranger could club him on the head, he incapacitated his assaulter with a few quick slashes to the legs and arms. He hadn't wanted to kill him, desiring instead to find out what the hell was going on.

Even as he'd watched from the window, though, the cabin was completely surrounded by a rabble of over a dozen armed men. By skill, cunning, and a hint of luck, Andross escaped with his life.

Via carrier pigeon, the Ranger sent a message to Redmont, explaining to Commandant Crowley that he knew the stranger hadn't been after his life. If that had been the case, he would have gone for the Ranger's turned back right away, not his bow. By destroying the weapon first, he made a security net, ensuring his companions a second chance of capturing and subduing their target.

_Why they were after me, I have no idea_, Andross had written with a grim hand. _It may be nothing more than a feeble attempt to get a ransom. Whatever the case may be, I do not think they are done trying._

Those words could not have been truer. In the coming days, Castle Araluen would receive a couple more pigeons from two other Rangers stationed at coastal fiefs, each bearing the same grave and troublesome news. One was as vague as Andross', while the other had more enlightening information. It was from a younger Ranger, Clarke, who had been stationed at Seacliff Fief for almost six years. He, too, was nearly kidnapped. However, whilst Andross and the other Ranger had simply gotten away, the attackers going for Clarke had found themselves falling into a trap. They were marooned when the not-so-sleepy fief realized their intentions and scuppered their unfamiliar ship. Taking the strangers captive, the Araluans found out that they were Toscans, Toscans working for some man they refused to give the name of. But Clarke got little more information than that – it was unforeseen that they could have used the Toscans' ship for details, such as letters and documents. Now sitting on the bottom of Seacliff's bay, it was useless to anyone and everyone.

But Clarke, at least, had given Commandant Crowley more to work on than the others did. One, that there was a middle man, a Toscan, out there somewhere, and two, that this Toscan was after a living Ranger.

Gilan was stationed at Whitby Fief. With both Halt and Will on missions, he was temporarily placed at Redmont, a neighbouring land, while Ranger retiree Alun looked after Whitby. However, once the news that Toscans were after Rangers stationed at the coasts, Gilan was dispatched to give Will, in the far south, the warning.

_If I'm not already too late_, the tall Ranger thought with a twinge of foreboding. Then he shook himself. Will was fully capable of holding his own. And with Halt visiting him, the Toscans would be waltzing into their own destruction.

_Then why do I feel so uneasy?_

Gilan found himself riding through the town of Highcliff, scattering villagers from the road. The citadel's outer walls towered over him five minutes later. The drawbridge of the barbican was down, and Gilan trotted Blaze across, having to slow her so as to not look like he was storming the place. A man in light armour stepped out of the guardhouse, hailing him and demanding to know his business in Castle Highcliff. Gilan's mottled green cloak was indication enough of who he was, but it was customary and wise to intercept him, even in times of peace.

Gilan pulled out his Silver Oakleaf necklace and the guard hastily let him pass beneath the portcullis, asking no further questions. The Ranger nodded his thanks, trotted Blaze through, and headed for the next gate and the citadel itself.

All let him pass upon viewing the oakleaf, making his journey all the more swift. As he finally reached the inner courtyard of the castle, he realized that word of his arrival had preceded him. The steward of Highcliff was waiting outside the front doors.

"Ranger Gilan, dispatched from Redmont Fief, with messages from said fief," the tall man reported formally after he dismounted, though he squirmed anxiously inside for the moment to give his ominous news. He was desperate to search for Halt and his last apprentice, not to mention Halt's son, young Crowley.

The steward nodded. "Yes, we know who you are. Ranger Ferin is a good friend of yours, I hear. Come. Our stable hands will look after your horse—"

"No," Gilan said immediately with a shake of his head. "With all due respect, my lord, I will look after Blaze myself."

Now the steward smiled, and Gilan realized that the man knew of the ways of Rangers well enough to recognize their dedication to the well-being of their horses. "It is simply a polite formality, Ranger Gilan, that we offer to care for your horse for you. We shall meet in due time. For now, care for it and we'll confide when you're settled."

Gilan was relieved that the steward wasn't soured by the matter, as many men of his sort of station usually were. But then he added, "I cannot stay long, my lord. The news I bear must also be spread to Rangers Halt and Will, who are to the south of here."

Again the steward nodded. "I understand your urgency, but you are of no use to anyone dead from exhaustion. We know where your accomplices are, and they may be there for days yet. What of your companion?"

Gilan blinked. "My companion?"

"The knight you were to be accompanied by. A major figure in the royal guard, I hear." The steward was glancing across the courtyard as though expecting the unnamed knight to come charging headlong through the front gate. Gilan shook his head slowly.

"I know of no such knight, my lord."

The steward waved his hands. "No matter, then. But tell me..." He stepped closer, eyes flashing around and letting any eavesdroppers know that he suspected they were there. "Is it true that Rangers are being attacked?"

So the pigeon from Redmont, too, had preceded Gilan. That didn't always happen, seeing as anything could happen to a bird, which was a major reason why the Ranger was dispatched at all.

Gilan nodded curtly, then added lowly. "Perhaps we should speak in more sound-tight quarters, my lord. There's no sense in causing panic."

"Of course, of course. When you are ready, we shall meet in private."

* * *

**Well, of _course_ I had to bring Gilan into this! c:**


	8. Expressive Mishaps

**I really am sorry about the spacious updates, but you would not _believe_ the drama and full schedule of the past few weeks, what with a full-time job, my favourite tv series ending, house/pet-sitting two different places, my dog dying, getting bit by a donkey..._twice_...**

**Add insult to injury, this is a very short chapter. My apologies :(**

* * *

~8~ Expressive Mishaps

Halt simply burned with urgency and angst, his renowned patience drawn thinner than it had ever been before.

After leaving the physician Bromley in his village, the Ranger had taken his son and the dog north, heading for Castle Highcliff. He had placed injured Ebony on Tug, who tolerated her uncomplainingly, and he kept young Crowley in the saddle in front of him in order to make the best speed possible. They could still only go so fast. Halt knew that Will, and Crowley, would be devastated if Ebony was harmed further from getting bustled around on a galloping horse.

The castle was yet another day away. Possibly two. Halt cursed their progress, but mentally, feeling that it wasn't necessary to start teaching Crowley foul language at such a delicate age. Still, a few words escaped his lips, and if the boy caught them, he was sure to punish Halt for it.

Punishment in the form of unending questions.

"What a clotpole, Papa? Why is Uncle Will a clotpole?"

"A clotpole is a...Well, he's not really a...What I mean is—"

"And why does he have a thick head?"

"It's just a figure—"

"Do I have a thick head or a thin head?"

"Erm, neither, son—"

"What does—"

"_Crowley_."

The boy fell silent, not hurt, just expectant. Halt sighed.

"Don't tell your mother I said any of those things, okay?"

Crowley nodded quickly. "I promise. But what a numpty?"

Halt sighed again.

**Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ**

Gilan was as restless as an unbroken stallion as he waited in Castle Highcliff, waited for someone he hadn't known he was supposed to be riding with until that day. A knight from the royal guard of Castle Araluen. Sir Horace, no less. Gilan had had no idea that the brave young man was supposed to have accompanied him, probably because he'd left Redmont in such a hurry.

_As you know, Sir Horace is an admirable fighter and invaluable companion_, Crowley had written in a pigeon message, which the steward of Highcliff had passed on. _And it would seem that, whenever partnered up with a Ranger, so follows a sequence of events that consequently and ultimately leads to the well-being of this country, whether or not such a thing was deemed possible or available in the first place. True, a great warrior always finds trouble, but it appears that trouble is taking the first step this time, and it is his turn to counter it_.

Gilan smirked as he recalled the message. It was true. Once Horace was thrown into a sticky situation with Will and Halt...Well, somehow everything just seemed to work itself out.

The Ranger was to wait another half day before a large, muscular bay battlehorse was seen charging for the city, upon which rode an armoured man bearing the crest of Castle Araluen. Gilan smiled. It would be good to ride with Horace again.

* * *

Gilan descended into the citadel courtyard from the battlement steps, watching the large knight greet the tiny steward with a small grin. It was like watching a great boarhound bow before a small rat-terrier.

He slipped up quietly behind Horace, his supple boots making no sound on the flagstones. The knight remained oblivious, engrossed with his apparently engross-worthy conversation with the steward, who glanced briefly once at Gilan but said nothing.

"So you really defeated that giant in single combat?" the steward asked, genuinely intrigued. Horace shrugged, not one for boasting.

"I was fortunate. Killeen was skilled, and nearly had me several times."

Again Gilan smiled. Horace was more modest than a humble farmer, even though several of his achievements had saved the kingdom in the past. Still, the Ranger crept up on him, as silent as a dead man's whisper, waiting for the opportune moment.

"That's incredible," the steward breathed, looking at Horace with barely-suppressed awe. "Could you demonstrate the manoeuvre for me?"

Gilan saw Horace hesitate, then shrug. He was now but two paces behind the knight.

"Well, when Killeen brought his mace down on my shield – which I had loosened the straps of, remember – the spiked ball bit the metal and held fast." Horace moved his arm up, holding an invisible shield and buckling his knees beneath a nonexistent blow. "As he swung the mace away again, it took my shield with it, pulling himself off balance. He looked back, exposing a bit of his neck." Horace grasped an unseen sword in both hands. "I simply took the chance."

Gilan knew the story, but still, he was unprepared when the knight demonstrated his final strike on invisible Killeen. Horace's arms swung up to the right and then chopped across, and the Ranger, being but a foot behind the stronger man, got his back-swinging elbow right in the nose.

_Whack!_

"AWG!"

Horace jumped a league and whirled around. "Gilan! God! I'm so sorry!"

The Ranger glowered through tearing eyes, clutching his face with both hands. "Why are you apologizing to _Him?_ _He_ didn't get whacked in the nose by a great brute's elbow!"

"Are you okay? Let me see."

"Get away from me!" Gilan danced away from Horace, still holding his nose and blinking away tears. _Why_ do eyes tear up when the nose gets struck?

"You great oaf! Watch where you swing those bloody gorilla arms next time, will you?"

Horace frowned. Gilan wasn't normally one for name-calling. "Well, what were _you_ doing slinking around behind me?"

"I wasn't slinking!" the Ranger protested, affronted. "I was just _innocently_ walking up to you out of your line of sight."

Horace's eyes narrowed further. "Without saying anything?"

"I didn't want to interrupt your _fascinating_ story."

"Why didn't you clear your throat?"

"That would have been rude."

"Then why did you mask your footfall?"

The Ranger scowled. "Habit."

Horace crossed his arms, no longer pitying. "Walking completely silent, from behind, without saying a word – that's slinking, Gilan."

The steward of Highcliff shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to deal with the confrontation. He was one of station, yes, but there before him stood two renowned figures of society, not only in title, but in notoriety. Gilan noticed his unrest and seized the excuse.

"_He_ saw me. You should have noticed his sudden glance over your shoulder."

Horace threw up his hands. "What am I, paranoid?"

"Your famous enough to have your own assassins."

"That's stupid."

"You wouldn't be thinking that if a blade stabbed you in the back." Gilan scrunched and wriggled his nose around, trying to banish the dull ache.

Horace mockingly checked over his shoulder. "Well, I see no blade. Only a slinking Ranger."

"I wasn't slinking!"

"_Creeping_, then."

"Gah!"

"My lords, if I may offer refreshments?" the steward said hastily, and Horace's face immediately lit up.

"That would be just grand," he said. Gilan rolled his eyes. The knight had a reputation of eating a whole crew of Skandians out of its own hall.

"There's no time. We have to go find Will and Halt," he argued, making Horace's expression fall back down.

"But...food."

"There is one road from here to the village of Relmund," said the steward. "And the hunter's hut that Ranger Will is staying at is a day or two from the village. Whether you leave immediately or an hour from now, you won't miss them if they are coming to Castle Highcliff."

Horace looked imploringly at Gilan, who threw up his hands.

"Fine. Whatever. As long as there's coffee."


	9. Hiding in Plain Sight

***Gasp* Merlyn is actually updating To Death and Glory twice in less than a week! _What sorcery is this?!_**

**Actually I had a bit of a breakthrough, and that last chapter was kinda short. Plus we need to see how our matey Will is doing c:**

* * *

~9~ Hiding in Plain Sight

The first thought that flashed through his head when he awoke was that he was in a coffin. The confined space, made of wood, prevented him from sitting up, rolling over or even putting his elbows out to the side for more than five inches.

Will's breathing quickened, eyes wide in the total darkness. He tried to move, but the low roof kept him from lifting his knees. His little prison was bumping along, as though on a rough road, and there was a constant creaking, gangling sound. With every jolt, his injured leg flamed with fresh agony.

_God, where am I?_

Will squirmed until he was able to get his hands so that their palms were flat against the roof, and he pushed. As he suspected, and dreaded, it refused to budge. He tried bashing the sides with little more success, but with every blow, he felt the walls of his prison coffin closing in on him.

"Let me out!" He hit the roof again and again, and suddenly, the bumping and banging stopped. The sound and sensation seemed familiar, and then Will figured that he must be on a carriage of sorts.

He heard the low murmur of voices and attacked the walls of his prison with fresh vigour, ignoring the pain his leg suffered from the activity. He paused when there was a grunt and the box tipped, as though someone had clambered onto the carriage and was upsetting the suspension. Will heard more barked orders, then a loud, solid thud. A creak followed, and a line of light split along between the roof and the right wall of Will's prison. He was right. He was in some kind of long, rectangular wooden box.

The light was blinding as the roof was pushed away, and Will threw up an arm in defence.

"_Salve_, pretty boy." The voice was gruff, cruel, and swathed with a foreign accent. Toscan, the Ranger placed a moment later. All at once, memory surged into his inner eye, and he groaned.

Julius. The rabble of Toscan brutes. Being drugged, beaten, taunted. His bow breaking. His cabin burning. Crowley missing.

Crowley!

Will went to sit up, but the large man crouching over him put a restraining hand on his chest. Not that it was necessary. The Ranger was weak not only from his injury and fever, but from being trapped immobile in a box for Lord knew how long. He couldn't have risen if a feather was lying on his torso.

"Don't even try, tree hugger," the Toscan sneered, and then he vanished, leaving Will to stare blandly at the light blue sky above.

For almost a minute he was left there, and the Ranger gradually became aware of his throbbing leg again, forgotten initially in his alarm. His eyes slowly adjusted and his heart stopped hammering so fast. His mind still roiled like a drunken serpent, but it slowly untangled itself as he forced the panic back into its dank hole from whence it came, summoning forth logic and cohesive thought.

It was due to this activity that he finally became aware of what he was wearing. He blinked. He looked ready to attend a marriage. A sombre marriage perhaps. His clothes were sharp, clean, and unwrinkled. There was a gleaming ring on one finger and his hair felt slicked back neatly. They had even cleaned up his short beard and moustache. Why would his captors do that?

"What the hell is this?" he mumbled groggily, once more trying to sit up. This time, there was no one to push him back down, and he saw that he was indeed in a carriage. It was black, sleek and devoid of a canopy of any kind. His box prison was sitting in the back, behind the driver's bench, and was surrounded by flowers.

Flowers?

Will tried to climb out, but a Toscan, dressed like a mourner, leaped onto the carriage and shoved him back down. He recognized him as Giovanni.

"Play your part and you won't get hurt, Araluan slinker!" he snapped, this time staying on the waggon to keep Will in place.

_My part? What is he talking about?_

Before the Ranger could ask, he saw a familiar and extremely unwelcome face poke his head over the prison box. Julius, the Toscan who had weaselled his way into Will's hut with fancy words and skillful bluffs.

"Morning, _amico,"_ he said cheerfully, but Will just scowled.

"Where's Crowley?"

Julius looked mockingly confused for a moment. Then his face lit up. "Oh, the sprat? I don't know. Lost in the woods, drowned in a river, in the belly of a wolf, who knows? Who cares? It's _you_ you should be worrying about."

Will growled. "What the hell is going on? Why am I in this box? Why—?" He silenced himself when he noticed that Julius, too, was swathed in smart, black garments. Pieces of the complex puzzle were slowly fitting into one another, but before the revelation ball started rolling, the Toscan interrupted his thoughts.

"No time to satiate curiosity. Days are short on this god-forsaken island and we need to keep moving." He glanced over his shoulder. "Oi, Niccolò! _Vieni qui, fratello_."

Into sight came a gangly youth, who seemed to be struggling beneath the weight of a satchel as he clambered onto the waggon. He was very lean, almost unhealthily so, with large eyes and a mop of dark hair. He looked familiar, and Will suddenly realized that, despite the different physique and hair colour, Niccolò and Julius had a remarkable resemblance. The same nose, for example.

Julius recognized Will's puzzlement and smiled. "_Messer_ Will, this is Niccolò, my half-brother." His grin was unsettling somehow. "His tongue is a slug to my whip, but he's smart enough to retain some of the medical arts I'm teaching him." He accepted the satchel from the youth and sent him away with a flick of his head.

Julius unbuckled the pouch and threw the flap back, pulling out bandages, vials and a few plants, and then rolled up Will's pant leg, revealing the bandages there. The Toscan nodded.

"It's healing up nicely. Now don't move and I won't have to get rough."

Will saw the flash of a blade and immediately began to squirm, ignoring the warnings, but Giovanni pinned him down, fingers digging in until the Ranger fell still. Julius said nothing as he simply cut the knot of the bandages and gradually unravelled them, careful to not cause Will any undue or unnecessary pain.

"Totally useless without their bows and magic cloaks," Giovanni said snidely, disregarding the Ranger's glower.

Julius quickly redressed the Wargal wound and pulled the pant leg back down, making sure there wasn't wrinkle nor hair to mar the expensive garb. Then he clambered off the waggon without so much as an, "_Arrivederci_" and vanished from view. Will wasn't even grateful for the mild pain-reliever the Toscan had so humanely applied – he was too busy hating the man with every fibre of his being.

He refused water and food when it was brought to him by a woman he had not seen before, a sort of feeble protest to his captivity. Refused, until they threatened him.

_No use getting myself killed because I won't _drink _something_, he thought, trying not to appear too eager when finally he accepted the water skin. He was parched, but he didn't want them to know that. He also tried not to wolf down the cheese and biscuits they gave him, which were surprisingly good, considering the company.

_But what would give me the idea that they were savages?_ he thought blandly, finishing the cheese slowly. His appetite was clearly returning with the healing of his leg and absence of fever. Julius was a real physician, not like he had implied the other night. _Because they kidnapped me? Beat me? They could feed me mouldy bread and hardened __cheese but they haven't. They have a spark of humanity in them._

_Then how does that make it seem all the worse?_

The woman who had brought the food and water seemed to recognize his inner turmoil, and smiled prettily. Years of training had nailed a deadpan expression on Will, though, and so he appeared immune to her charms.

"You're a cute one," she said, her accent thick, reaching to pet the Ranger's head. Will didn't so much as flinch or glower in protest, deciding that impassiveness was better than reaction. "Septimus must have chosen you just to tease me."

"Who is Septimus?" Will demanded. Every ounce of knowledge could be used to his advantage at some point. The lady didn't indulge him, unfortunately, and simply smiled, running a finger down his cheek.

"Leave him be, Pietra," Julius growled, and Will felt an absurd swell of triumph. Pietra must be his lady.

The woman pouted but did as told, slipping gracefully away to let the Ranger eat his food in peace.

As soon as he finished, Giovanni got ready to put the rectangular box's lid back on, to seal the Ranger inside once more.

"Pleasant dreams, Araluan," he said, throwing it down before Will had time to protest or enquire.

Julius heard the muffled, "Hey, wait!" as Giovanni hammered the coffin lid back down, but paid no heed. The other Toscan jumped off the hearse and clambered onto his horse, Julius doing the same a moment later.

"Less than two days until the coast!" he declared loudly. "Let's go home!"

There was a slight cheer with the prospect of seeing their homeland again, and with the heavy coin purses that awaited them. Smirking slightly in elation, Julius fell in place beside the horse-drawn hearse, Niccolò, his brother, to his left.

He heard the Ranger bashing the inner walls of the coffin fruitlessly, but ignored the sound as best he could until, at last, it faded to submissive silence. His hand relaxed over the horse crop in his hand, which wasn't really a crop. It was a narrow rod tipped with a sedative-filled dart. It would put a man into a sleep so deep, he'd look...almost dead.

The company of eight continued down the road, scouts returning at scheduled times to report. Julius remained as taunt as a drum skin until each Toscan assured him that no Araluan patrols were heading their way or following. Their guise was sound-tight, but that didn't mean that nothing could possibly go wrong...

* * *

It was but three hours before sunset when a scout charged back down the road, dark cloak flapping behind him and dust pluming like a sand storm.

"_Signore__!_ King's patrol! Heading this way as we speak," the Toscan reported breathlessly, yanking his snorting horse to a halt before Julius.

Without hesitation, Julius commenced barking his orders. "Positions, _maschi__!_ This is what we've been rehearsing for. Mess up, and I'll nail your _coglioni_ to a tree!"

In all of fifteen seconds, the darkly-clad Toscans fell into place, three riding in a line on either side of the hearse, then three in front, three behind. With a nod from Julius, Pietra took out a damp handkerchief and started to cry, rubbing her eyes to smear the makeup beneath her ebony mourning veil.

_We have ten minutes_, the Toscan thought, preparing the crop with the sedative dart at the end. He rode close to the hearse and slid aside the inconspicuous panel, creating a small opening to the inside of the coffin. He heard the Ranger shift, but wasted no time in poking the dart in, piercing his shoulder.

He heard the grunt of confused pain and annoyance, and jerked the needle back before hiding it in his saddlery, leaving a normal crop in his hand. The hearse driver, Ettore, waited about half a minute before turning and prying the coffin open. After he finished his job, he hammered it back down and sat back in his seat, trying to look despaired. Julius thought he didn't do a very good impression, and made a mental note to tell him to just be emotionless next time. For now, the king's patrol was fast approaching.

The leader felt a trill of nervousness, but swallowed it and put on his best mourning face. He'd managed to outfox a renowned Ranger. He could deal with a few of the king's dogs.

Seven armoured riders, two bearing the waving banner of Araluen, rode up in a neat double-column, the leader up front. They rode at a steady trot, but slowed as they reached the melancholic procession on the road.

"Halt, in the name of King Duncan!" the leader called, and without hesitation, Ettore stopped the hearse and the others pulled on the reins. Julius kept going though, signifying authority as he moved forward to meet the patrolmen.

"Hail, my lord," he called, masking his Toscan accent with that of Araluen. He sounded quite convincing, if he should say so himself.

"State your business," said the other man suspiciously. He sounded seasoned, potentially stubborn and wary. Julius would have to play his cards perfectly here.

"Why, sir, is it not clear?" The doctor swung an arm out to embrace his company. "There has been a death. We are taking our brother to be buried."

The Araluan captain showed no signs of sympathy or understanding. He continued to look hard and leery, glancing from one Toscan to the next. Each one of them, indeed, was dressed in clothes of mourning, and a veiled woman was weeping piteously. There was a coffin in the back of the waggon, surrounded by flowers. Looked like a funeral procession all right. The Araluan frowned, still wary.

"What was his name?" he said, trying to keep a level tone. If these folk were indeed telling the truth, there was no need to be crass.

"Jacob Fletcher, tree feller and miller," Julius replied solemnly, eyes downcast. "He was taken by the sweating sickness, my lord. Terrible, terrible." He shook his head for good measure. _Buy it, you high-nosed fool_.

The Araluan nudged his horse closer, signalling to his men to remain still. "Let me see him."

Julius threw on a look of shock as Ducio, the Toscan playing the clergyman, exclaimed, "I say, sir! That is most outrageous! For what possible reason have you to demand such sacrilege?"

_Watch your accent, man_, Julius thought flatly as the captain turned on Ducio.

"Forgive us, Father, but there have been suspicious activities occurring all along Araluen's coast, and we are charged with stopping and questioning every party on the road."

Julius stepped back in. "What sort of activities, my lord?"

"Attempted kidnappings."

Now the doctor tried to look appalled. "How barbaric! Who are the accused? Who's being kidnapped?"

The Araluan officer narrowed his eyes. "That is none of your concern."

"But it must be! What if we saw the offenders, but knew not what they were doing? They may have gone by us and we didn't even know!" In his passion to sound convincing, Julius almost lost his accent, and nearly put up his hands to emphasize his words, as was common with Toscans. "Were they bandits? Slavers? How would we recognize them?"

The Araluan scowled. He glanced from one mourner to the next, coming to a decision.

"Suspicions point to Toscans, and they're after the king's Rangers."

Julius's eyes widened. "Really? Rangers? But no one could catch a Ranger!"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you again. Open the coffin. Until the perpetrators are found, everyone is regarded with the utmost scrutiny. I'm sorry, but it must be done."

"How absurd!" Ducio grumbled. "May the Lord forgive you for your sins, captain. I will pray for your soul."

"You do that, Father." The Araluen pointed to Ettore, the driver. "Open it."

Pietra wailed all the harder at the thought of such desecration, wringing her drenched handkerchief in distress. Julius dismounted and walked past her, nodding ever-so-slightly in approval.

Ettore took up a crowbar as the Araluan rode up alongside the hearse, remaining mounted so as to see into the coffin better. The Toscan driver drove the bar into the lid and began to pry.

Julius tensed but tried to appear calm, not daring to reach for the hidden daggers in his shirt and hoping the others were wise enough to remain still as well. Anything could go wrong at this point, anything...

There was a loud, shuddering creak as the coffin lid finally came off. Pietra howled with girlish anguish, shaking her head and shoving her handkerchief to her face, unsuccessfully smothering the sobs. Julius watched the Araluan captain's face, ready to act should he see alarm, surprise, or anger. But there was nothing. He just saw the look of a man who'd seen death before, just in slightly more bloody circumstances.

The man in the coffin certainly looked dead. His face was pallid and his lips flat and pale. His closed eyes looked shallow and empty, sunken into his skull. He was set as though asleep, however, hands clasped over his chest, a fanciful heirloom ring on his finger. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed back, and there wasn't a wrinkle in his clothes.

The Araluan studied the face, trying to make out familiar traits, but with difficulty. He knew most of the Rangers – well, knew their faces – but this one was young and unfamiliar, not to mention lacking life. The captain even touched his neck, searching for pulse and feeling for warmth. He found neither.

"Satisfied, captain?" said Julius, with just the right hint of disdain. He had the right to be offended, after all. The Araluan stared haughtily at him.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said, as though merely stating, "The weather is warm today." Very matter of fact and not at all sympathetic. "As you were, gentlemen, lady." He motioned to his men, and they all rode off, continuing east along the road.

* * *

As soon as the dust cloud of their departure vanished beyond the trees, Julius leaped onto the hearse, a vial in hand. He pried Will Treaty's jaw open and poured the vial's contents in.

"Come on, Araluan," he hissed, slapping him rapidly on the cheek. "Play time's over."

For a long, heart-wrenching minute, Will didn't react to the antidote. He remained there, ashen and cold. Julius felt a swell of alarm claim him. What if he'd mixed the concoction wrong? The poison he'd had given Will was a rare one, expensive and hard to acquire by both public and discreet means. It slowed and weakened a man's heart, took away the colour from his flesh, even lowered his body temperature. It also quickly killed. If Will was unresponsive to the antidote, he really would be dead.

The physician heard Pietra at his shoulder, and glanced at her face, the false tears having ceased and her sobs extinguished. "Will he be all right, my lord? He's looking awful pale."

Julius sneered. "Your concern for him sickens me, _puttana_. Go back to your horse."

Pietra pouted. "Ooh, you're so tense, love." She ran an arm along his back and down his side. "You need not worry about me. You're the only one in my world."

Julius said nothing, his full attention on the Ranger who was still unresponsive to the antidote. Pietra sniffed and slid from the hearse, back to her steed.

_No...We worked so hard. Wake up, _bastardo! Julius snapped inwardly, giving the Ranger a rough shake. _My life's on the line because of you! Wake up! _He pressed his fingers against Will's neck, pushing deep to find the flutter of life.

_Yes, yes, there!_

The pulse was strengthening, and soon Will's chest rose to take a full breath. It rattled, and he succumbed to a coughing fit for several tense moments. But his eyes were open and his heart beat was returning to normal. He would live.

"What did you do?" the Ranger demanded coarsely, having regained control, but Julius just smirked, hiding his relief.


	10. Discussion over Dinner

**I am such a horrible, horrible person. Making y'all wait while I slave over work and clean up a different story and stress over everything else, like school applications.**

**Sucks being socially awkward xP Makes things difficult to get over with.**

**Anyway, hope you like this update :) And thanks again for all these reviews! Never had so many so quickly x3**

* * *

~10~ Discussion over Dinner

Halt slowed Abelard from a trot to a walk as they passed beneath the barbican of Castle Highcliff, Tug following suit almost in complete sync. Crowley, held before him in the saddle and wrapped in the Ranger's cloak, stirred from his sleep as he sensed the change of pace. It was only the late afternoon, but the boy was travel-weary. His sleep, at least, had given Halt time enough to think in peace.

"Mama?" Crowley muttered, groggy, and Halt sighed. The child thought they were back in Redmont.

"No, son. We're at Castle Highcliff."

Crowley rubbed the crumbs from his eyes with little fists and glanced about curiously. His childish fascination was already brewing questions, and Halt was bracing himself for a full bombardment when a familiar and exceedingly welcome face greeted him from a side door.

"Well met, Halt," said Gilan with a small grin. The tall Ranger was flanked by yet another friendly face, and Halt felt himself pleased to see Sir Horace step out into the courtyard. There was a piece of cheese in his hand.

Halt raised an eyebrow at the cheese. "Well, I was expecting something more of a sharp, ceremonious greeting, but I suppose a ragged Ranger and a glutenous knight will have to do."

Gilan scowled playfully and Horace went red, having forgotten about the cheese in his hand, but evidently, it was very tasty cheese, for he hastily shoved it into his mouth and chewed it. By the look on his face, however, it hadn't been quite chewed enough before he swallowed.

"Hello, Halt," he said sheepishly, quickly straightening his rumpled shirt. The old Ranger's eyebrow remained in its favoured arch.

"Sir Horace," he replied with humorous formality and a curt nod of his head.

He could feel Crowley wriggle in the saddle in front of him, and knew that the boy was barely containing his excitement. He dismounted from Abelard's saddle – ignoring the fact that he felt as stiff as cold candle wax – and helped his son down. Crowley wasted no time in rushing over to Gilan and hugging him about the middle. If he'd moved any faster, the Ranger would have been run down.

The boy's words came out in a rush. "UncleGilanwehaftafindan'saveUncleWillan'—"

"Whoa whoa whoa _whoa_, there, boy! Calm yourself!" Gilan exclaimed, overwhelmed by the onslaught. Not to be pacified, Crowley released him and charged over to Horace, giving him the same treatment.

"Therewasbanditsan'lotsalotsafirean'we—"

Horace looked to Halt in complete bafflement. "He's trying to tell me something, I just know it!" He glanced down at the boy. "You're really cute, lad, but I don't understand what you're saying!"

This silenced Crowley. He released the large knight and stood back, hands on hips and brow furrowed in childish anger.

"Imma Ranger. Rangers int cute! Learnna respect, sir knight, or I'lla hafta teach yew!" His chest was so inflated with air, one could have put him in water without worries that he'd drown.

Horace's face became on of mock horror. "Oh, my lord! I had no idea. Please forgive my blundering soul!" He got to one knee and bowed his head, and Halt was reminded of a rooster as Crowley puffed out his chest even further and strutted around.

"Tha's bettah!" the boy said, nose up. Then he giggled, no longer being able to retain the image of a self-important noble. "Can I see your sword, Uncle Horace?"

Gilan felt a hand on his arm, and saw that Halt was leading him a few paces away, to talk in private.

"Something has happened," the grizzled Ranger said sombrely, and Gilan felt his stomach become a fathomless pit.

"That's what I was afraid of," he replied softly. "When I saw you riding here with Tug, but not Will..."

Halt hid his confusion well. "What do you know? How could you have suspected anything?"

Quickly, Gilan studied his former mentor's face, noting the darkened, tanned skin. His last mission had been in Arrida, he knew, and he would have only recently returned from it.

"There have been incidences, extremely unusual incidences, that occurred while you were gone," Gilan began. "Three Rangers were attacked and nearly abducted..."

Halt listened with spawning realization as the younger man recounted the attempted kidnappings of three members of their corps, all of which had happened to Rangers stationed at coastal fiefs, and had been the works of Toscans.

"We do not know why," Gilan said quietly, "but we knew that they weren't going to stop until they got what they wanted. The king has questioning parties up and about, but I feel it hasn't been enough."

Halt nodded grimly. "And you're right. It wasn't enough." He was reluctant to say more, and he glanced once meaningfully over at his son. Gilan didn't need to turn around, but he could hear Horace speaking to young Crowley, showing him the importance of each part of a sword.

"We'll get him fed and put him to bed," he said, "then you can tell Horace and me what has transpired. You look like you could use a cup of coffee, too. Come, the roast duck here is quite good..."

* * *

Horace pushed the string beans around on his plate, no longer hungry. It would usually take more than an avalanche to stop his appetite, but with the news of Will's kidnapping, his stomach had clenched into a painful knot.

"But _why?_" he asked redundantly. "Why would someone abduct Will? I mean, he's famous and all, but he's still a Ranger. I thought Rangers couldn't be held for ransom as effectively as a criminal would hope for."

"And you're right," said Halt sourly, glaring at his goblet of watered wine. "No matter who he is or what he's done for the kingdom, Duncan wouldn't pay any ransom for the release of a Ranger. It is the same with his courtiers. It is a dangerous life for both trades."

Gilan ran a finger along the grain of the table, anxious to say the next words but knowing that they were necessary if they were to unravel the enigma. "You don't think...What if he's already dead?"

Halt looked sharply to him, and Gilan felt like an apprentice again, an apprentice who had just done something completely stupid after being shown the proper way of coming about something.

"He's not dead," the older Ranger stated crisply, and with such conviction Gilan wanted to agree.

"But as you say, only a fool would try to ransom a Ranger. What other reason would a person have to kidnap one? As we know, it wasn't Will specifically that they were after, so it wasn't his renown that got him to where he is."

"Perhaps the Toscans wish to learn Ranger secrets," Horace put out, and immediately warmed up to the idea. "I recall reading that Toscans believe in magic. Maybe they wanted to see what magic Rangers use to become invisible and have such uncanny archery skills."

"It isn't magic!" Halt barked, and Horace blushed furiously in chagrin.

"I know that! You know that's not what I meant," he growled back. He felt like he could bend the fork in his hand, if he wanted to. He was just so angry! "You shouldn't have left him," he suddenly growled. "You should have sent word that he needed aid!"

Halt's brow darkened thunderously. "Is that so, great and noble knight?"

Gilan cleared his throat, but Horace ignored him.

"Yes! If you hadn't left him alone, you could have defended him."

Now Halt's eyebrows lifted in mock astonishment. "Oh, I see! I could have sent smoke signals for help, or used my _Ranger magic_ to call upon a bird to take a message, or whisper _words_ onto the _wind!_"

Horace snapped his jaw shut. Fury and frustration roiled within him like boiling oil, but through the raging darkness shone a light of logic, and he sat back down into the table bench, not realizing that he had started to rise from it in his anger.

"I'm sorry, Halt," he grunted docilely. He was glad that his voice didn't split. "I forget myself. I would have done the same in your position."

Halt harrumphed, but not out of contempt or triumph. "It was a difficult decision to make, Horace. I did not act on it without great reluctance. Will is as a son to me as he is a brother to you, and I also had Crowley to think about."

Gilan pushed his plate away, clearing a space before him. As though writing on invisible parchment, he pointed at various points on the wood, trying to visualize and account for all his thoughts.

"This is what we know," he began, pausing a moment to make sure the others had given him their rapt attention. "Toscans have been hunting for Rangers. They targeted those on coastal fiefs because that way, they had a seaward escape route, probably to return to their homeland by boat. In this, we know that Will was not sought out specifically, yet this does not rule out the one motive of the abduction being an act of revenge, on a broader scale.

"We know that this is not likely to be a ransom attempt," he continued, "but the option can't be snuffed out completely yet."

"And we know that Will's alive, else they would have killed him at the cabin," said Horace quickly, and Halt nodded in agreement. Gilan waved a concurring finger at him.

"That is true. But something has been troubling me."

Halt made a wild guess, as something had been nagging at him, too. "You're wondering why they would go after Will, when his station was days from the nearest coast."

"And I thought it was just a hunter's hut," said Horace, frowning in consternation. "It isn't even a Ranger's cabin. Who would know he was there?"

Gilan was sketching more invisible lines on the table top. "They had made at least three attempts since six days ago, not including Will's abduction. The Toscans may have grown desperate, for even they would have realized that their actions would not go unnoticed for long. Perhaps they moved inland in the vague hope that they would find a Ranger..." Even as he spoke, however, doubt dragged down his words like sacks of sand in water.

Halt scowled at his half-eaten slice of bread. It was good bread, but the gnawing worms of trepidation and sorrow left no room for food in his stomach. Unwittingly, his thoughts turned to his saddlery, where he had stored Will's broken longbow and his ruined mandolin, found in the ruins of the burned cabin. Both treasures were useless now, so why did he salvage them?

Horace looked drawn. "I still don't see why they would need a Ranger. As you say, ransom is unlikely, and Will wasn't a target because of what he has done, per say. What reason is there, for _Toscans_ of all people, to take him?"

"There is something...I haven't told you," said Halt wearily. It would seem that fatigue chose that time to step into place, but he fought the urge to yawn as the others looked expectantly to him. "As I searched the area around the cabin, the morning after Will was abducted, I found a dagger." He described the hilt of said blade, emphasizing the bronze plaque that sat where the cross guard and the hilt intersected. The spread-winged eagle, holding two crossed swords and ringed by a laurel leaf. The mark of the Munerian Games of Toscana.

Evidently, Horace had never seen the insignia before, and had a blank look to Gilan's thoughtful one.

"The eagle...laurel wreath...It sounds familiar, but I can't place it," said the young Ranger, asking Halt his unsaid question with his eyes.

"Neither of you were born when the Munerian Games were disbanded," Halt said softly, and continued before they could ask anything. "The Games—though games they were not—were events displayed for the amusement of the more rich folk, but a few coins were often enough to get you into bad seats. Anyone could enter, but not everyone got out. Many had no choice – slaves of war, criminals, the like. They called themselves Champions, or that is what the closest translation is."

"And they did what, exactly?" Horace asked, cautious. Halt looked under hooded eyes at him.

"They fought. They fought for life, for gold, for glory. Even for freedom. Quite the gamble, of course, for if you lost, you were dead."

Horace looked disgusted. "And this was allowed to happen? Where was the compassion? Where was the morality, the nobility?"

"Fifty years ago, there was no monarchy in Toscana," Halt explained patiently. "And I was yet a boy when the Games were finally disbanded, when a monarchy was finally established. I'm not sure where he came from, but a leader saw the unrighteousness of it all and banned the Games for good. The founding family, Opus, was dishonoured and exiled." The Ranger shook his head. "But it would seem that they have returned. The head of the family, the Aetius, must be a twisted man indeed."

Gilan looked thoughtful. "But if the Games were eliminated and banned, what makes you think the Toscans took Will to fight as a Champion? Wouldn't the king smother the attempts, arrest those responsible?"

"Gold is a remarkably effective blindfold," said Halt bitterly. "But I think we can be secure in the knowledge that this is all just a suspicion, not a fact. It could be a coincidence that a Toscan with the insignia of the Munerian Games on his dagger had come to help kidnap Will. It is also the seal of House Opus, so our worrying may be for nought."

"For nought?" Horace exclaimed, incredulous. "Be that as it may, Will is still gone! We have to go after him."

"Will was kidnapped once, and you were not allowed to go after him," Gilan said to Halt. "But with our new Special Task Force arrangement, I think it will work."

Horace looked to him. "That means you'll have to stay here. Redmont cannot be without a Ranger."

Gilan looked sour. "I'm well aware of that. As much as I dearly wish to go with you, Halt, I know that it would be impractical."

"One riot, one Ranger," Horace stated with a grin. The others didn't share his slight whiff of gaiety.

"But I want to come with you," Gilan continued, "just until you reach the coast. Redmont can go a few days without a Ranger, I'm sure, and then I'll take young Crowley back there."

Halt made to argue. "Gilan—"

"Please, Halt. It isn't for a pleasure ride! I want to make sure you can get on a ship without being attacked on the way. There will probably still be Toscans lurking about."

"I'll be with him," said Horace with finality, knowing that if there was a rescue mission to recover Will, he was going to be included. Gilan was still not appeased.

"I'm aware of that. But what harm does an extra bow cause, eh?" He looked imploringly at his old mentor. "Just until the coast, Halt. Getting a few more hours of sleep at night will do you a world of good." He threw on a stubborn, grumpy old face to mimic Halt's almost perfectly. "No matter what you say, Greybeard Halt, I'm going with you."

Horace managed to stifle a snigger at Gilan's mocking expression. Halt seemed to recognize the futility of further argument, and relented with reluctance.

"Fine. But no one says _anything_ about our suspicions to my son, understood?"

The others nodded solemnly, and Halt stood, his dinner barely touched. "Good. Now I'm going to sleep. We leave at dawn."


	11. Southward Bound

**I feel like such a slacker -.- I can't believe it's been almost two weeks already...Fudge.**

**I'm trying to not jump around with the perspectives too much, but I'd rather jump around with that than with time. If anything gets confusing, let me know :)**

* * *

~11~ Southward Bound

Night fell with no further incidences, and the Toscans pulled off the road, breaking through a rank of trees in order to reach a small clearing just beyond. They struck camp with mechanical swiftness, pitching tents and tethering horses, preparing a cold evening meal. They started no fires.

Will Treaty, Araluan Ranger and Toscan prisoner, was taken from the hearse and placed in a tent, his hands and feet bound. A while later, they freed him to relieve himself, then they fed him, watered him, and finally roped him once more.

Will tried to make himself comfortable on the stiff, unyielding ground, but he felt like as limber as a slug, hands behind his back and his feet tied too tightly together. He mostly squirmed in the effort to prevent his arms from falling asleep and keep his blanket on at the same time. For a while, he glowered at the Toscans sitting around the camp, talking and jostling each other jovially. After all, they had gotten what they came for, and were going to be much richer for it.

_But why me? _Will thought, slumping in despair. _If they think they'll get a ransom for me, they're going to be sorrily disappointed_...

It wasn't ten fretful minutes later that Julius returned, his half brother, Niccolò, at his side with the satchel of medicines. Will resisted the urge to growl behind the gag and simply glowered at the younger man. He was satisfied to see the fleetest of hesitations in the Toscan's next step.

Julius recovered and smirked. "Let's take a look at that leg, _amico_," he said, too cheerfully, as he bowed into the tent. Will didn't move as the Toscan removed his gag, then rolled up his pant leg and once more cleansed and redressed the wound with a fresh poultice and clean linen. This time, Niccolò stayed to watch, studying every move his brother made, yet saying nothing.

"You're not going to tell me why you need me, are you?" Will asked Julius flatly, expressionlessly. The Toscan continued to bind the Wargal wound, only speaking when he had tied the final bandage snugly.

"I suppose it would do no harm," he said with a single shoulder shrug. "I'm sure you remember how we found you."

_Berkart Falk_, Will thought darkly, recalling the mendacious man who had terrorized the three villages and their headmen, trying to reclaim the land for his own. He and his family, who had been banished to the Mountains of Rain and Night, had rightful ownership, after all, but when placed at the baron's feet in Highcliff, Falk proved himself an incompetent, rude, slinking dunderhead who couldn't lead a squadron of goons, let alone three whole villages and their lands. Will had rooted him out and made an enemy of him. As Julius said the day before, he had created an enemy but made the mistake of not destroying him.

"Berkart Falk," Julius said, nodding at the wave of recollection in Will's eyes. "He told us everything about your mission when we found him, wandering with his wife and grown son in the wilderness. He didn't need much convincing, as I'm sure you could guess." Julius chuckled, but it was dry and flaccid. "I like you, Will Treaty, so I'm sure you understand how surprised I am, thinking back, of how much vehemence Falk feels towards you. It would seem that, when you make an enemy, it is the darkest of all mortals with whom you do so."

"You haven't answered my question, Julius," Will said calmly, still deadpan. "I'm not interested in why it is me you've kidnapped specifically, so much as why you need a Ranger at all."

Julius was crouching on his heels, his wrists resting on his knees. He looked like he was trying to explain something moderately complex to a young child, patient and gentle. "We work for another man, you may have guessed, named Septimus. And he works for Lord Aetius Opus...Never heard of him? He's a rising warlord in Toscana."

Will was puzzled with the doctor's sudden loose tongue. How much was actually true? As though reading the Ranger's thoughts, the Toscan smiled foxily. He reached into his jacket and pulled from an inner breast pocket a folded letter.

"There, you see?" He pointed to the thick red blot of the wax seal. "This is the mark of Lord Aetius, and of the Munerian Games."

Will studied the eagle insignia, the crossed swords and laurel wreath. It meant nothing to him. He shrugged carelessly, but Julius was not vexed. He shrugged as well.

"Anyway, it will be more..._significant_ to you eventually," he said. He turned to Niccolò. "Stay here and watch over him. Send for me should his condition worsen." He pulled Will's blanket back atop him, then replaced his gag.

"Rest well, Champion. You'll need to be in top physical form if you wish to survive the Arena of Romena." Then, grinning, he departed.

Will stared at Niccolò. The youth, gangly and meek, did nothing but stare back, as though studying a particularly fascinating specimen with suppressed interest.

He nearly tried asking a question, but then remembered his gag and held his silence. Instead, Niccolò was the one to speak.

"He's really not all that bad," he said softly, and Will just stared. His accent was really thick, and he hesitated a lot in his speech. "Julius, I mean. I'm not saying that just because we're related, but he respects others where it is due." He shrugged a shoulder and continued the one-way conversation. "I may be struggling to earn that respect, but I work hard to shine light upon myself in his eyes." Another shrug. "If he didn't love our father so much, I'm sure he wouldn't even try to like me."

Niccolò grew perturbed with the steady gaze the Ranger was delivering him, and fell silent. Why was he explaining his _fratello's_ respect to a foreigner, anyway? What did he matter?

Still, like Julius, Niccolò found himself liking Will Treaty. There was just something about him, despite his coldness towards his captors, that was likable. A shame that he may very well lose his life in the Arena. Or, if not his life, then his sanity.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Gilan shook his head at the destruction that had been wrought by the Toscans but two days ago, the remains of a hunter's hut – Will's temporary station – mere charred ruins. The fire had long since been extinguished, yet the stench of burned refuse hung in the air like the morning mists.

"A bit extreme, I think," he said, lifting one eyebrow.

Halt grunted, his eyes avoiding the ruins as he sought to rediscover the trail of their quarry. He didn't expect to find much, seeing as the rain would have washed it all away, but it was a good distraction.

"From what I had seen," he said, "they went south from here. The closest port, I believe, is Stonewall, another two days ride. We can make it in less than that if we hurry." Even as he said this, however, he remembered his son. The boy had decided that he, too, was going to help rescue Uncle Will, because that's what Rangers do. It would save time when Gilan turned around to take him back to Redmont, for they wouldn't have to detour northeast to Castle Highcliff. Of course, there wouldn't be any delay at all, but Gilan was adamant in accompanying Halt and Horace as far as the coast, and he would have gone further had duty permitted it.

They could only go so fast with a young boy jostling around in the saddle in front of Halt. But then, their quarry may be unable to pick up much of a pace with an injured man and steep desire to not arouse suspicion...

Not for the first time, the old man wished that he had commanded—on the grounds as a senior Ranger—Gilan to take Crowley, along with Tug and Ebony, back to Redmont right away. They had left the dog at Highcliff for her own health, and left the horse to keep her company.

Horace kept his hand casually on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the solemn glade studiously, without turning his head to indicate his doing so. Halt nodded in approval. It would seem that being around Rangers had rubbed some useful influence onto him.

"How many were there, did you say?" the knight asked softly, tearing his gaze away from the pond and its concealing reeds.

"Around a dozen," Halt replied, equally gentle. "One was killed and left to burn in the fire." He recalled seeing that burnt corpse, two charred coins on its eyes. He wondered what that meant.

The company of four faced the canyon established by trees and foliage, which led south, back to the road in a few kilometres. By the time the road came into view, their shadows had become stretched, oblong shapes on the ground. Young Crowley yawned and made to cuddle up to his father and sleep.

"Let's find a place to camp," Halt said gruffly, and the others nodded impassively, showing no signs of fatigue or relief. The grizzled Ranger held a deadpan expression himself, not wishing to relay his own exhaustion. He hated being old.

About a hundred paces into the trees, they found a small glade, a brook close at hand and even a log to sit on. Horace tethered Kicker to a bush while the Rangers simply let their reins fall, knowing that their horses wouldn't wander off.

Crowley, seeming to be limitless in his interest of Horace's massive battlehorse, wandered over to the beast and revelled his immense size. Gilan went about making a fire and Halt prepared to make supper and coffee.

"I was looking forward to one of Will's famous stews," Gilan said grimly, tossing a few twigs into the growing fire as though it would have been fruitful. Halt scowled at him from over the small cooking pot.

"Well, you'll have to make do with mine," he grunted, throwing in a pinch of rosemary from a small leather pouch. He gave the stew a stir, glancing over at Crowley, who was brushing Abelard down...Well, what parts of the horse he could reach, anyway.

"I should not have brought him," he murmured. "We are moving too slow, and I don't want anything to happen to him."

"We won't let anything happen to him, Halt," said Horace, having finished caring for Kicker and was sitting near the fire. "And besides, he's a growing man. He needs to prove himself."

"Prove himself?" Halt hissed, keeping his voice lowered but still sounding incredulous. "_He's four years old!_"

"And the son of a gnarly old goat," Gilan added, but he wasn't smiling. "Halt, four or not, he would feel the guilt any other would face – perhaps not as vividly – that his uncle was kidnapped right before his eyes. Give him this chance to say that he helped rescue him."

Halt would have replied rather sharply had Crowley not approached, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"I sleepy," he mumbled, before snuggling up to his father and promptly falling asleep. Halt gently covered him with a woollen blanket, letting him rest his little head against his chest.

"Halt," Gilan said softly. "He has the spirit of his mother and the heart of you. Do not underestimate him."

Halt chose to say nothing, and in fact said nothing else that night.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Julius cursed inwardly. Will Treaty was thrashing in the clutches of fever, again.

The Ranger writhed beneath his blanket, unconsciously trying to free his hands and feet from their bounds. Sweat misted his face as though he had been out in the rain, his dark hair matted and glistening. He grunted wordlessly around his gag, giving the occasional whimper of pain.

"What did you feed him last night?" he barked at Ettore, the usually drab, docile man, who acted as the hearse driver in their little ploy. The Toscan shrugged helplessly, shivering in the early dawn air.

"The same as everyone else, _signore_," he cried. "Rabbit stew, a biscuit and watered wine."

Julius tried to regain his dignified composure, but it was difficult with him being surrounded by imbeciles! Frantically, furiously, he tried to remember the exact vulnerary ingredients he had placed into the poultice for Treaty's leg. Yarrow to staunch further bleeding. Poppy to smother pain. Elderberry for swelling and fever. Then a few special ingredients to battle the Wargal venom running through his veins.

The concoction had worked earlier, why would it poison him now?

He ducked into the prisoner's tent and swiftly unbound him, lying him flat.

"Niccolò, bring my bag, hurry now."

Niccolò, his half brother, who had delivered the news as soon as Treaty began showing signs of the returning fever, hastened forward with the apothecary satchel. Julius snatched at it and dug through its contents veraciously.

"Get me fresh water. _Now!_" he bellowed. The weedy youth scrambled to do his bidding.

Almost automatically, Julius mashed up the yarrow in a pestle to remake the poultice that had proved so fruitful the first time. He wasn't a first class physician, after all, and even they make the occasional mistake or the wrong diagnosis.

Niccolò soon returned with a pail of fresh spring water, and, grimly, he helped prepare the new dressing for Treaty's leg.

It took almost an hour longer than it usually did, as Julius was being extra vigilant and he was watching his _fratellino_ like a hawk. They did what they could, and then departed from the tent, into the mid-morning sun.

"Septimus will have to wait another day," Julius growled. "I will not risk losing the Ranger, not now. Send out the scouts again. Any signs of travellers, let me know immediately."


	12. Man Trackers

**Me: *opens mouth to give excuse***

**You: _Get on with it!_**

* * *

~12~ Man Trackers

The remains of the restless day passed uneventfully, though by dusk, Julius was ready to chew through rock.

_Dawn_, he suddenly told himself. _Whether or not Treaty is ready, we leave at dawn. If another of the king's patrols comes by..._

_Don't even think about it_, he growled inwardly, interrupting his own thoughts. _We've come this far, and I will not give up when our goal is yet so near! What is a day? What is one more night?_

Little did he know that that was all his pursuers needed.

* * *

"We can't waste anymore time," Julius announced, pushing past Niccolò. Dawn was bleeding into the eastern horizon, and many of his men were still groggy with sleep. "Get him onto the waggon. I'll treat him on the way."

"Is that wise, Julius?" Niccolò asked dubiously, wary of his brother's reaction. "I thought you said we shouldn't move an ill man—"

"His injuries are not mortal anymore," the other man snapped impatiently, but then he calmed himself and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know you seek my acceptance, _fratellino_, but you are not yet ready to give any respectable medical advice." He ruffled Niccolò's dark hair and ignored his deflated look. "We'll keep a steady pace," Julius called to the men. "Step to it."

Will Treaty, now unbound, was lifted up and placed gently inside the coffin of the hearse. They didn't put the lid on, for Julius ordered that he was to have as much fresh air as possible. However, as a precaution, someone rode backwards on the hearse, to be on the constant watch for any move the Ranger might make.

"Put on haste, Ettore, but keep it smooth. I want Treaty back on his feet before we reach the cove."

Since catching the Ranger days ago, Julius had fantasized the glorious attention upon reaching the secluded cove where their escape ship was to be moored. Septimus would be waiting there, and how he would reward the doctor for his wit and cleverness...

Now, thought, he envisioned the keen-eyed, dangerous man glowering at him with his thunderous gaze, berating him for losing their chance to become some of the richest men in Toscana.

"You _will_ wake up," Julius muttered under his breath, glaring over at the coffin that was now Treaty's sickbed. "You _will_ live to be a grand Champion...For the sake of your old friend, that is."

Julius blinked at his own threat. He'd forgotten about the old Ranger. What was his name? Halt. Halt, whom Julius had pretended to be acquaintances with while worming his way into Treaty's cabin that night. Surely, Halt would be looking for his young companion by now...

Impulsively, the doctor glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to see the grizzled old man racing down the road after them, longbow already drawn and a lethal arrow aimed at Julius' heart.

He shivered and turned back, pretending to take sudden interest in a warbling thrush sitting on a tree bough. Now he had something _else_ to unnerve him! As part of the Toscans' funeral ploy, they could not move any faster than a trot, and even then, not for very long. It would not do to be stopped by another Araluan patrol with sweating horses and panting men. That wouldn't look the part at all.

Their slow progress would only allow whatever pursuers they may have catch up with all haste. Julius knew of the uncanny endurance of Ranger horses...

_Even if Halt could magically see our trail that was drowned in the rain, he has all of us to contend with_, he thought, but knew he was just reassuring himself.

He cast a furtive glance over at their restless captive.

_Come on, Will Treaty..._

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Halt rose from a crouch, finding that keeping his face impassive was exceptionally difficult at that moment.

"They camped here for the night," he said grimly, as Gilan emerged from the trees. The younger man was nodding in confirmation.

"There are well-concealed remains in a glade back there," he said. "No fire pits, but I found a tent pike, hoof prints and freshly turned earth, all adeptly concealed. They're good, but not perfect."

"And they're slow," replied Halt. "For whatever reason, their pace is like a funeral procession. Look here. The tracks are light and close together. If those remains in there are as fresh as you claim, and I have no doubt they are, then we should be able to catch them by tomorrow."

Horace was jiggling with impatience. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

Halt rolled his eyes, then turned his shrewd gaze on him. "And there I went thinking that some useful Ranger tactics had rubbed off on you," he toned flatly. "We can't to racing off after them like a rabble of mindless hooligans, you know."

"Hoowigans," young Crowley parroted, giggling.

"For one," Halt continued, "we don't want them to know they're being followed. That makes them dangerous. Of course, we must also suspect that they _do_ know they're being followed. That way, we might yet avoid some messy surprises."

"And we don't want to startle them into doing something rash," said Horace, trying to regain some lost pride. Halt nodded.

"Exactly. Criminals often have a nasty habit of ruining everything for everyone when their lives are on the line. The whole, 'I'm taking you down with me' nonsense." He looked to Gilan. "We'll keep the pace brisk. At any point that our view is shorter than fifty metres along the road, we'll slow down until we can see ahead. I'd rather not end up on their laps before we're ready to...to liberate Will."

"Ready to whip some Toscan butt, you mean," said Horace, without an ounce of frivolity. They kidnapped his best friend. He wasn't about to let them off with a mere slap on the wrist.

"Ha, you said butt!" Crowley cried gleefully.

"They'll probably have a rear scout," said Gilan, mounting Blaze. "We'll have to keep extra diligent, in case he comes slinking up behind us."

"Yeah, 'cause no one likes someone _slinking_ up behind them," Horace said darkly, with a hint of salty humour.

It was a wonder how Gilan didn't set the sun afire with his reproachful glare.

"Let us move," said Halt, pretending to be oblivious to the exchange. "We have another hour of sunlight."

For the majority, they moved at a smooth canter that swallowed the kilometres ravenously. Personally, Halt couldn't have been more satisfied with their progress. For days he'd been worried that, because he had to turn back to Castle Highcliff, his quarry would have too much of a head start for him to catch up before they reached the coast. But it would seem that, by the tracks, something was slowing them down drastically.

But what could that possibly be? More importantly, was it of their own free will?

* * *

Dusk came, and there was no visual of the Toscans. The four travellers found themselves inhaling deeply, quickly recognizing the salty tang of the sea on the wind.

"The coast is near," said Halt redundantly. He didn't usually say redundant things, but he was understandably distracted that evening. He scanned the Toscans' tracks, hoof prints and waggon wheels, the occasional apple core. They moved slowly, but they hardly ever stopped, not even to eat.

The Rangers and knight stopped regularly for the sake of Crowley, and, though Halt never admitted it, so he wouldn't have to be pulled off Abelard's back like a sack of potatoes because his legs were too stiff to move.

"By noon tomorrow, we'll see Port Stonewall's chimney smoke," said the Ranger, dismounting with a grunt.

"You don't think they'll try to get a ship _there,_ do you?" asked Horace, also climbing down. "It seems a bit, you know, _open_. Won't they be stopped by the king's men?"

Halt glanced sideways at him.

"Well, if you were them, what would you do in their case?" He couldn't help but feel like he was speaking to an apprentice. With a pang of forlornness, he remembered how much he missed having Will as his young pupil, or Gilan for that matter.

Horace was oblivious to the Ranger's sudden nostalgic airs. "Um, I would have a ship at a secluded bay or harbour. Yeah, scheduled to moor at a certain point...of the day? For a few days?" He shrugged. "Probably a simple ship, nothing to draw unwanted attention, but something fast so if it does, it could get away."

Halt nodded in approval. "And this secluded bay you mentioned. Where could it be to earn the description 'secluded?'"

Horace blinked and thought. "Well...maybe something surrounded by thick forest, or cliff faces. Or both." He looked to the Ranger. "Is there such a place as that nearby?"

"The Cliffs of Clamour," said Gilan softly, nodding. "It is, as you so aptly described, a secluded bay. A cove, really, with an angled entrance barely wide enough to allow two ships through abreast, making it difficult to see from far offshore. There are cliffs that rise around it from all sides, so a ship moored there could be easily kept safe. Unless someone wanted to sink it, that is."

"So it can't be approached from land?" asked Horace, heart sinking. They would have to find a boat to reach the boat, which wasted more time than could be wasted. But Gilan was shaking his head.

"There is a pass, a very narrow pass, that cuts through the cliffs on one side," he said, using his hands to describe the path. "The cove, after all, was heavily used by smugglers and pirates many years ago. At least until the king discovered its location."

Horace's heart had floated when Gilan mentioned that there was indeed a way through the Cliffs of Clamour, but then he described that way, and his heart plummeted like a lead weight. "A n-narrow pass?"

Gilan frowned, but Halt understood the knight's distraught immediately. "It won't be as bad as you imagine, Horace. Don't think about it now. Besides, you've gone through worse."

Gilan glanced at the knight's hands, which had tightened on Kicker's reins. By his posture, he had stiffened like a corpse, and he was chewing his lip as though he wanted to eat it. The Ranger recognized the signs of a natural—but not necessarily logical—fear. After all, in addition to some sweating and tingling on the back of the neck, Gilan faced the same behaviour when confronted by spiders. Nasty...crawling...itsy-bitsy spiders...

He shuddered and resisted the urge to scratch behind his head, then ignored Halt's curious look.

"Why are they called the Cliffs of Clamour?" Horace suddenly asked, clearly trying to distract himself from the looming endeavours ahead.

Halt looked grimly at him – though he hardly ever looked anything different than grim.

"You'll see when we get there."

"Or hear," Gilan added, cocking an eyebrow.

* * *

**The itsy-bistsy spider climbed up the water spout...Down came the rain and washed the spider out...**


	13. Unrest

_**Damn my writer's muse! **_**DX**

* * *

~13~ Unrest

Dawn seemed to be late that morning, the morning of the day they were to reach the cove. It wasn't that the sun simply decided to sleep in. Julius was just writhing with anticipation, eager to be off.

The looming Mountains of Rain and Night, towering high to the west, glowed brilliantly in the rising sun. Araluen had its beauties, Julius reflected more than once, beauties that would make any patriot of glorious Toscana pause.

He stared at those mountains as first the snowy peaks gleamed like golden eyes, and then as they dressed themselves in sunlight, greedily accepting dawn's embrace before the lesser world below them could feel its warmth.

As soon as the tallest trees of the woods shared the golden tops, Julius aroused his men.

"It's time to move out!" he declared, rather snappily. "If we don't make it to the cove tonight, we're dead men. If a patrol does not find us, the Rangers will. And if _they_ don't kill you for your lax, _I_ will! Now move your _c__uli!_"

The Toscan recruiters seemed especially eager to move on that morning. Julius felt that it wasn't for the threats, but for the prospect of boarding on a ship and returning home.

He himself was bouncing inside with excitement. His tongue had grown tired of the flat Araluan wine, and he longed for the sweet, bitter tang of Toscan drink.

"You will never have the wine of your homeland again once you've had the brew of Toscan grapes," he said softly to Will Treaty, who was yet unconscious with fever. It had greatly culled from the other day, despite the travel, but he still refused to open his eyes. Even so, Julius continued his one-sided conversation with the senseless Ranger. "Oh, you didn't think that, once in the Arena, you would be treated as a mere prisoner of war, or a slave thirsting for freedom? No. Selected Champions get to feast like nobles, like kings! The finest wines and delectable cuts. Fresh cheese and warm bread, creamy butter and gravies, crisp vegetables, exotic fruit...Sometimes, the flesh of your defeated foes."

He laughed quietly to himself then, oblivious to the apprehensive look Niccolò was so obscurely delivering him.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Forty kilometres behind the Toscans, the Rangers and Araluan knight were watching the same rising sun and the same golden peaks of the Mountains. They had no fire to confirm their presence with their quarry, and were swallowing the urge to grumble at the lack of hot food.

"By this map," said Halt, holding up the said wrinkled, yellowing parchment, "we should reach the cove before nightfall. That means that the Toscans will definitely reach it before then. At their pace, however, we should be able to overtake them first. With any luck, they won't even get to see their escape ship."

"And we won't have to go through the narrow pass to reach the cove," Horace pointed out notably. Suddenly, his speed doubled as he tacked up Kicker. "What are we waiting for, a favourable wind? Let's go!"

"But I haven't even finished breakfast yet!" Gilan protested, waving his hard biscuit everywhere, but there was a grin to the others' glares behind his eyes. He shrugged it away. "What a couple of lemons you two are."

"Lemons," little Crowley giggled. The boy was toying with a stick and an ant, waiting while his father saddled Abelard.

Horace frowned, then moved closer to Halt. "We can't ambush the Toscans when Crowley's with us. What are we going to do with him?"

Having realized this a few days prior, Halt nodded, scowling. "I know. I can't believe I didn't think of this before we left Highcliff." He realized that he had tightened the girth a little snugger than he meant to, and quickly loosened it a bit, patting Abelard on the neck in apology. "One of us is going to have to stay back to watch him. Plus, if anything goes wrong, we'll need someone to ride back and give the warning."

"I nominate Horace as babysitter," Gilan muttered, sidling up to them. There was no more humour in his face, and the knight glared at him.

"I don't think so. One riot, one Ranger. Having both of you would be like going after a fly with a battering ram."

"_You're_ a battering ram all by yourself!" Gilan countered. "You can't sneak up on anyone like a Ranger. No offence, but this is a delicate situation and—"

"I know it's delicate! It needs stealth, true, but it also needs strength. Besides, you weren't even supposed to come in the first place."

"Listen to you two. Squabbling like spratlings," Halt growled. Crowley heard him, and glanced up curiously.

"What a spatling?" he asked, his lisp thick. Halt ran a hand over his hair.

"Never mind, son." He looked to his former apprentice. "Horace is right, Gilan. Plus, Blaze can go further faster than Kicker. With something like this, haste is our greatest ally."

"He's your son. Why don't _you_ watch him?" Gilan demanded. His defiance held valiantly even before the dangerous gaze of the older Ranger. Halt's words grew soft and cold.

"Will is like a son to me as well, Gilan. As are you—"

"And Will is my friend," the other replied sharply. "I have a right to help save him just as much as you and Horace."

"You came with the promise that you would take Crowley back to Redmont as soon as we reached the coast," said Halt calmly. "We've reached the coast, or at least we're damn near close to it. What good is the word of a Ranger if you can't even keep it?"

"I promised to protect you until the tide touches your ankles. I've yet to see the endless horizon, Halt, and by God I shall see it before I return with Crowley. _As I promised_."

"You're picking _nits_, Gilan!" exclaimed Horace. None of them were even bothering to lower their voices now. "We reach the southern shores in a matter of hours. _I'm_ still here to cover Halt's back."

The Ranger turned on him. "And it'll be like he's being stalked by a grizzly bear. The Toscans will hear you coming, and we might as well have lit bonfires every night to let them know we've been following them."

"Gilan," Halt intervened, even his voice rising in anger. "Do not make it an order—"

A small voice spoke up, then. Small, and timid.

"Why you all fighting?"

All three men turned their heads to look at the young child standing but feet away, stick and ant forgotten, an anxious look on his face. Simultaneously, they became ashamed of their immature, tactless behaviour, and looked abashedly at each other.

"I guess I'm...stoking a dead fire on this one, am I?" Gilan asked softly. Halt put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"I am grateful for your adamant determination to save Will. Had our situation been different, I would be honoured to have you with me. But right now..."

Gilan nodded. "You need me away. I understand."

Halt gave him a warm shake and released his shoulder, turning to finish tacking Abelard. As he did so, Horace clasped forearms with Gilan tightly.

"I promise to look after him," he said, loud enough for Halt to hear, and the young Ranger grinned ruefully.

"You better, or else I'll see to it that you never have cheese again."

Horace snorted, carelessly tossing his head. "Cheese? What do I need cheese for? I can live without _cheese!_"

The look Gilan gave him was unnervingly sly. "Are you sure?"

It was then that Horace realized that, maybe, he couldn't.

* * *

Gilan rode a ways behind the knight and older Ranger, explaining to Crowley what was going on. Well, a censored version of it.

Up ahead, Halt studied the tracks, recognizing where the Toscans had stopped for the night.

"Their pace has quickened," he said, rising stiffly from a crouch. Indeed, the indents in the road were deeper and more widespread than they were the day previously, signifying heavier and faster footfall. Still not at a gallop yet, though. "Why do you think they would do that, do you suppose?" Halt left the obvious question hanging, as he often did when he had an apprentice underwing. Of course, Horace wasn't his apprentice, yet he took a small thrill in making youngsters think for once.

Horace recognized the cue. "They either know they're being followed, or they're eager to return to their ship. Or both."

The Ranger nodded. "I do believe you are right. Whichever the case may be, we must outpace their speed. Let's move."

Kicker's stride was longer than Abelard's, but the small Ranger steed moved quicker and had an endurance that would run the battlehorse's legs from under it. Halt let his companion set the pace, which was to his satisfaction anyway, so as to not exhaust Kicker at such a crucial point in their mission.

"What's the plan, Halt?" Horace asked during their brief resting time. The Ranger looked out into the woods.

"As we established before, we can't go charging into the midst of them in a heroic and idiotic rescue attempt. One, we're outnumbered by sixfold, and two, we don't want them using Will as a hostage. Situations like these require planning, true, but it is difficult to plan when we do not yet know the full situation."

"So do we have to wing it?" the knight asked, slightly apprehensive. He wasn't generally a planner, but he'd been with the Rangers long enough to know that even a simple strategy could mean anything and everything in a mission. A Ranger tearing into a rescue attempt without a plan was as about as likely as a Skandian tearing into a rescue attempt _with_ a plan.

Halt regarded him now. "'Wing it' is too flimsy a phrase. We're just going to have to take stock of the issue once we've caught up to them."

"So...we have to wing it," said Horace, deadpan.

Halt looked sour. "In one ear and out the other, it seems," he muttered, clicking Abelard back into a gallop. After all, he had nothing else to counter with.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Septimus watched the approaching shore without even revealing the fleetest of emotions. The untrained eye, or the unlearned eye, would look at the rocky cliff faces, frothing sea roiling furiously at their feet, and see nothing but a massive aerie for birds. However, it was common knowledge for the crew of Toscans that there was a hidden cove in those cliffs. It just had to be viewed by the precise right angle at a certain point of the day to be spotted at all.

"Trim that sail! Bring her to starboard ten degrees!" the captain barked from somewhere on the poop deck, and as the sailors swarmed like ants across the rigging, the helmsman turned the rudder to starboard as specified, and the triangular-sailed vessel responded like the sharpest of horses.

The cool ocean breeze ruffled Septimus' hair from where he stood at the prow, the swelling waves no longer churning his stomach like curdled butter, as it did when he first cast off from Toscana. After two weeks of sailing, he felt like he had riding the seas all his life. In fact, it was why he was on board now instead of sitting near a warm fire on sturdy land. After setting Julius on Ranger Treaty, he returned to the coast and climbed aboard the _Sterna Argento_, the Silver Tern, which vanished over the horizon until the preordained times.

One such time was today.

The _Sterna_ rose and fell over the impending tidal swells like a duck, retaining her course as the watery passage into the Cliffs of Clamour came into view at last.

_Be there today, Julius da Romena_, Septimus thought witheringly. _Or by the gods I'll have your insufferable hide made into a saddle_.

The Toscan ship had been ducking into the cove every two days for six hours as specified, always expecting to see the dozen or so recruiters waiting to be picked up with their prize. For the past two trips, there had been nothing but the gravelly sand of the narrow beach and the incessant racket of seabirds roosting in the cliff faces above. The anticipation was almost too much.

More of the confusing nautical orders were bellowed as the _Sterna Argento_'s stabbing bowsprit dipped into the shadows cast by the cliffs, swiftly followed by the jib sails and the prow. The shaded air was much cooler than the sunlit winds, but Septimus ignored the chill as he leaned forward slightly, trying to be the first to see the belly of the cove.

"Hoist all sails! Run the sweeps!"

With admirable haste and accuracy, the Tern's crew did as bidden. The triangular sails were furled, immediately slowing the ship, and then there were several grating sounds as the multiple panels running along either side of the hull were slid aside. Long, narrow paddles slide out with practised ease and dipped into the water. They would row into the cove, where the winds were too weak to do anything but wail as they crashed into the Cliffs of Clamour.

Minutes later, the cove was revealed. Towering rock faces loomed on all quarters, sheer, impenetrable faces. A thin, crescent beach lined the northern side, and Septimus was disappointed to see it barren of all life.

_But no matter, no matter_, he told himself with a deep breath. _We shall wait here until dusk, as planned. If they come any later, they will have to be in hiding for two days until we can risk one more landing_.

The narrow split through the cliff, the only way into the cove by land, was shrouded in unbroken darkness. Septimus knew he would be watching that crevice for hours, waiting. Hoping.

* * *

**I know, I know. You're bored of this stuff. But there will be action in the next chapter, I swear!**


	14. Birds and Bees

**Hey, guess what, mates. Remember how I said there was another fandom I was writing a story for that was competing for the teeny tiny amount of time that I have with this one? Well I finished it, only for something _else_ to barge in and take its place. A commission drawing that I shouldn't just shove to the back of the shelf, for the sake of courtesy. But you know what else? I've written over 8000 words since the last update, so I'm catching some headway! :D And do you know what else else? I'm updating _twice_ today because you guys are oh so loyal and I promised more interesting stuff, which I am giving in both chapters! Enjoy!**

* * *

~14~ Birds and Bees

Halt opened his eyes that morning hearing the same sounds he'd heard the previous night. The constant wailing of the distant yet imminent Cliffs of Clamour. They were louder, however, as there was a northbound wind, carrying the eerie din to the four companions.

"Papa, wassat?" asked young Crowley sleepily. The boy had sat up and was rubbing his face with delicate little fists.

"Yeah, Halt. Wassat?" Horace, too, was awake, and he grinned toothily for his cheek.

Ignoring the knight, Halt stood slowly, gently stretching out stiffened limbs as he addressed his son.

"Those are the cliffs, boy. We soon approach them."

Gilan yawned, having fallen victim to the dawn watch, and let loose a shudder, as though shaking away the morning dew. He'd had to listen to the ruckus ever since the winds picked up, about two hours earlier. It almost reminded him of the stone flutes in the Solitary Plains – an endless, unnerving wail of the winds hitting the jagged faces of the cliffs, and not only that, but the raucous cacophony of thousands of seabirds, all cawing and squawking from the countless nests and nooks gouged into the ancient stone...

The sounds swelled with the rise of the breeze, and all three of them shivered inwardly. It was a ghostly sound, haunting and swollen with portentousness. Crowley, however, just looked into the sky in wonder, as though he could see the din floating on the wind.

"It noisy," he said simply.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Julius wanted to fall to his knees and weep. He wanted to throw up his hands and thank every god in the heavens. He wanted to light enormous fires in their honour and toss in entire feasts of food as sacrifice.

Will Treaty had awoken!

The Ranger began to stir in the early afternoon, the cool, refreshing sea breeze seeming to do wonders for his fever. He only shifted feebly in the hearse coffin, the lid still off to let in continuous fresh air, but that was enough to make Julius' heart sing like a sparrow. And just when haunting chorus of the Cliffs of Clamour were heard upon the winds.

The call for water was demanded, and Niccolò hastened forward with a pail and clean cloth. Julius dipped the cloth and wrung it over Will's parched lips, dripping a slight trickle of life-giving fluids into his mouth.

Will groaned and opened his eyes, glancing fleetingly about in confusion. Julius gave him more water, which he sipped greedily.

"More," he rasped as the Toscan stopped, but Julius shook his head.

"Not right now. How do you feel?"

"Thirsty."

"Besides that."

Will regarded the physician levelly, with a hint of vexation. "Like I'm going to die."

Julius leaned back, searching through his satchel. "It would seem that the Wargal venom had a comeback. I've seen it before. A person that falls ill may seem to go on the mend, but then will suddenly perish, their body's defences deteriorating in just a few short days." He gave Will a wry smile. "Thank you for not succumbing to that."

Will's return smile was as warm as a glacier's core. "You're welcome."

"_Signore_, we must continue," Giovanni grunted. "The S_terna Argento _is not going to wait beyond dusk tonight."

"But of course, you are right," said Julius loftily, elated by how previously problematic factors were coming together into his favour. "We must make haste. _Signore _Septimus does not like to be kept waiting."

Will saw Julius disappear from his skyward view. He figured that he was back in the coffin, sitting on the rear of the hearse. The smell of freshly-picked wildflowers wafted around him, their tantalizing scent reminding him of home. Perhaps that was because one such flower, honeysuckle, was in great abundance, and he could always distinctly smell the sweet aroma whenever close enough to Alyss...

His trance was interrupted by a great, fat bee that buzzed drunkenly near his face, and he froze warily, waiting until it passed. Will listened, and heard several more bees helping themselves to the fresh wildflowers surrounding the coffin.

Then he allowed his hearing to expand further from the limits of the flowers. He frowned, catching the rising and falling of a raucous din, in sync with the pitch of wind. He couldn't place it, exactly, but if he was to hazard a guess, he would propose it to be birds. A thousand restless birds.

Will felt the urge to sit up, but it was as though he was trying to lift several lead weights with him. He detected the muffled orders that Niccolò was to wait on the hearse with Will to keep an eye on him, and then saw the gangly youth clamber aboard to sit beside the coffin, looking uncomfortable.

"What is the S_tern Ar...Argenta..._?" Will began.

"The S_terna Argento_," Niccolò said hesitantly, his Toscan accent ringing thick. "The Silver Tern. It is our way off of Araluen."

A stir of apprehension ruffled unruly feathers in Will's chest. "How long?" he finally asked stickily; his voice was still rough from dehydration. His eyes watched yet another inquisitive bee until it vanished from view. He wasn't one for bees.

"No more than an hour or so. You should sleep." Niccolò looked away then, pretending to study the surrounding wood.

Sleep was sounding mighty fine right then, and the Ranger felt his eyelids sag closed. Maybe...just for a minute...

* * *

"_Signore!_ Another king's patrol, heading our way!"

The cry was so loud and alarmed that Will's eyes snapped open in an instant, but he was yet too weak to sit up. He could only hear as the Toscans murmured nervously amongst each other, and Niccolò, sitting in the hearse over Will, was glancing about like a restless pigeon.

He heard Julius curse.

"From which direction?" he demanded of the scout.

"South, _signore_."

Another curse. "They're between us and the cove. _Accidenti__!_ And we are yet so close!"

Giovanni pushed in. "What is the problem, _signore?_ All we must do is close the coffin and inject the Araluan swine with that foul concoction of yours again."

Will remembered the first time that had happened. He'd woken up from a living death, struggling to breathe, his tongue like a dead vole and his pulse weaker than a baby bird's. It was not a sensation he was willing to experience again. But he felt a flutter of hope at Julius' next words.

"He is still sick, _idiota!_ If we put him under, he may not surface. Nay, he _will _not surface."

Giovanni's words grew tense. "Bash him on the head, then! He'll give us away to the Araluans if he isn't silenced, and we'll all be dead. It's our lives or his, Julius."

"Our lives are _pointless_ without his!" the physician barked back.

"_Signore_, they come swiftly!" the scout persisted urgently.

Julius came to a decision. "Take your positions," he ordered. "Make yourselves look despaired. We shall bluff our way through, as we did before." As the Toscans scrambled to do his bidding, he himself clambered onto the hearse, dismissing Niccolò with a wave of his hand.

"You understand, Araluan," the physician hissed to Will, "that if you make so much as a peep, you will be condemning the lives of perhaps seven hapless men. You alert them to your presence, and we will have no choice but to slay them all." He casually smoothed the lapels of Will's disguise, a now useless ploy. "I'm sure you don't want _that_ on your conscience, Ranger. I certainly wouldn't." He waved away a bee that had come to inspect his face, as was the curious disposition of bees, noticing for the first time how many had come to feast on the fresh wildflowers, picked as they were every morning so that they would continue to look the part of a funeral procession.

Will opened his mouth to retort, but the Toscan placed a finger on his lips, then held another to his own.

"Not a peep."

A moment after Julius leaped clear, Giovanni and Ettore lifted the coffin lid and hammered it into place, sealing the frustrated Ranger inside.

Not knowing that a bee had been sealed inside with him.

Pietra, Julius' lady, kneed her horse up beside the physician's and immediately summoned up the tears, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief beneath a black veil. The Toscan leader ignored her, focusing instead on the growing dust cloud to the south.

It took him a while to realize that his heartbeat was a giant's fist pounding at his rib cage. He could feel it throbbing in his neck, and he immediately took a deep breath. It did nothing. Their ploy was greatly hindered by the fact that their prisoner was conscious and aware of what was at stake. The Toscans had to rely on his sense of morality – his life, or that of seven others. If he was any kind of man they thought he was, he would pretend that death had claimed him, thus willingly and wittingly allow his chance of salvation slip past like silt through his fingers.

Julius rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to make them look red and puffy as the patrol trotted up to the Toscans, just like the first had days ago.

"Halt, in the name of the king!" their leader predictably said. This time, it was a younger man, barely old enough to grow a decent beard. By this, Julius figured that it was either because his liege lord was a fool or that the man was notably clever, perhaps an incredible swordsman for one of his age. In any case, the Toscan knew that his tact would have to be perfect. And this time, he could not allow the patrol to open the coffin as he so readily permitted before.

"State your business," the sergeant ordered as Ettore halted the hearse. "What is your purpose so far from civilization?"

Julius manage to make his voice tremble slightly, as though he had been recently crying. "My lord, we are in mourning. We lost our good friend to a terrible disease, and seek to cremate his remains and scatter the ashes where he desired in his last will and testament."

"Is that so? It isn't a Ranger you're hiding in there?"

It was a close thing, but Julius just manage to turn his look of shock into one of confusion. "A Ranger, my lord? Why would we be cremating a Ranger?"

"Not cremating him, you fool! Kidnapping!"

The young sergeant sounded rash, impatient. Julius began to wonder if he hadn't earned his title, and it was only because of a parent of noble blood that he was permitted to lead a road patrol at all.

The physician could see, from the corner of his eye, some of the Toscans glanced at each other fleetingly. Pietra hesitated in her weeping, but then renewed her act with fresh vigour, as though outraged.

"How dare you!" she wailed. "My husband lies dead in a box, and all you can do is get in his way of a well-deserved rest, accusing us of _kidnapping_—!"

"Be calm, my child," soothed Ducio, playing the priest. "I'm sure they mean no offence and will now gracefully allow us to proceed."

"Not until I see what is in the coffin," the sergeant growled, kneeing his horse forward.

Julius grasped at the first thing that came to mind. "Oh, I wouldn't do that, my lord," he warned. He felt bolder as the idea sidled up to him. "The disease that took young Godfrey Jonsson is a terrible, terrible thing indeed."

"Is that so?" The haughty Araluan tried to look unconvinced, but he stopped his advance.

Julius nodded solemnly. "Aye. It was something I had never seen before, and that our priest had witnessed only in the rarest of cases. A fungal parasite that ate away Godfrey's flesh, gave him boils, rendered him blind, and caused his fingernails to rot on his hands."

"Leprosy?" the sergeant asked, cocking an eyebrow smugly in an attempt to look educated, but Julius could see his hands tightening on the reins. His men were shifting nervously.

"No," the physician replied, shuffling through his memories for other foul side affects of even fouler diseases. He found that he was enjoying himself. "Not like any leprosy case I'd ever seen. Godfrey shed almost a hundred pounds in just three weeks. He vomited blood and his teeth fell out if he coughed too hard." Julius lowered his voice, leaning towards the Araluan intently. "And just before he died, his testicles withered and fell off."

The sergeant paled until he was a sickly shade of grey. Julius had to rein in a grin. The man must be some kind of stud where he's from.

"Is—" The Araluan's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Is it contagious?"

Julius nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes. It is by pure fortune – and by the grace of God – that none of us have contacted it...yet."

The sergeant swallowed, trying to straighten and square his shoulders. "Then we shall not play with chance. Where are you taking him to cremate his remains?"

"To the sea," was the vague reply. "And as it is a private ceremony, we would appreciate it if you didn't accompany us. Godfrey was very dear to us all..."

* * *

Will knew the hearse had stopped, but the jolting his heart caused made it seem he was still moving along on the bumping, jostling road.

He lay there in complete darkness, palms sweating, moisture speckling his brow. Slowly, he moved his hand up to brush away the damp; the dead don't sweat. As he did so, he heard the low tone of voices from the outside, no doubt belonging to Julius and the patrolmen.

_This is my chance to escape_, he thought. _All I have to do is make a sound_...

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. The lives of at least seven men stood precariously and unknowingly on the brink of destruction. All it would take was Will's small sound to over-tip the balance and send them crashing over the edge like an avalanche.

And so he remained there, trying to swallow his heart back down and resisting the urge to move his hands from where they lay on his chest. As part of the gruelling Ranger training, he had learned how to hold still for hours at a time, when the punishment for exposure meant certain demise.

But when there was a bee involved, he might as well be trying to stand barefooted on a bed of pulsing embers.

He heard the little insect buzzing somewhere around his midriff. His eyes widened for a moment in the darkness, but then he immediately closed them. A bead of sweat slithered tauntingly down his temple, like the fingertip of a teasing lover, but he did not move to brush it away.

_Leave me be...leave me be..._

He never told anyone about his fear of bees, probably because he wasn't afraid enough to actually call it a fear. At least, that's what he told himself.

He heard nothing for almost a minute, but then he felt a slight tickle on his ankle.

_You've got to be kidding me..._

Will's forehead creased, his mouth tasting like brittle parchment. The bee was making its way up his pant leg. Why his pant leg?

_Just hold still...still..._

In a jolt of reminiscence, he recalled when Halt had concealed himself while Will was but a first-year apprentice. The old Ranger was having his ward attempt to spot him in the foliage, to prove the effectiveness of mottled Ranger cloaks. Unfortunately, Halt had decided to conceal himself standing on a nest of red ants. And not only was Will inexperienced, his vision was no more evolved than any other human being's, so he could simply not see Halt. Not for a long time.

Ultimately, Halt said that he was simply teaching him, "What _not_ to do" in the art of concealment. That was to say, stand on a nest of angry red ants for long periods of time.

Will focused now on his current predicament. The bee was now somewhere around his knee, having crept its way up where his pant leg wrinkled like a tunnel. If Halt could withstand half an hour of a hundred nibbling ants, he could last five minutes with a single bee...

Except that bee was wandering perilously close to his inner thigh, where the skin was exceptionally sensitive and ticklish.

_Dear God_.

It was involuntary when he twitched. A particularly violent tickle sent a lightning strike of nerves through his entire leg, and he clenched his muscles. The bee did what was natural in the fear of being crushed, and stung.

Will made no sound. At least, not vocally. He did, however, kick, and the resulting thud was heard from the people standing around the hearse.

* * *

The muffled and barely perceivable thud would not have been noticed by the Araluan sergeant. It shouldn't have been. It was just a small sound – might have been the driver shifting his feet in the cockpit. In this, it would be safe to say that Will was not responsible for the consequential carnage that day. No, the blame fell to Niccolò, along with three other Toscans, who automatically looked to the coffin when the Ranger within involuntarily kicked the wooden side.

"What was that?" the sergeant demanded, instantly cured from his revulsion of Godfrey's supposed disease.

"What was that what?" asked Julius smoothly, trying to look surprised. But the Araluan wasn't paying him any more attention.

"Open it up," he ordered of Ettore, the hearse driver. He then indicated to one of his men. "Look inside."

What little respect Julius had for the sergeant drained like sewage into a slimy pit. Still wary of a skin-eating and mortal disease, the Araluan was willing to put his loyal men at risk before himself.

"My lord," Julius protested. He felt desperation claw at his belly like ravenous rats. "The disease! By opening that coffin, you risk the lives of every man and woman here, including yours—"

"_Open the goddamn coffin!_" the sergeant blared, used to having his way in the presence of lesser men.

Pietra began to wail afresh, sounding very convincing.

"Shut up, wench!" the Araluan barked at her, and Julius fumed.

"Mind your tongue around the ladies, sir!"

The sergeant drew his sword, his horse tossing its head nervously at the rising confrontation. "Open the coffin, you sod, or by God lose _your_ tongue!"

"I will not allow you to endanger our very souls with your selfish exploits! Be gone with you, daemon!" Ducio the priest bellowed, holding up a hand to ward off evil. But he made no move to stand between the coffin and the offender.

"I'll have you all arrested for treason if that coffin is not opened at once!" the sergeant very nearly screamed.

Silence fell. Julius regarded the man with a level stare, revealing no emotion to compromise his inner turmoil.

"As you command, my lord," he managed to say without too much notable vehemence. He nodded to Ettore, who miraculously managed to look convincingly repulsed by the order. He even went so far as to put a cloth over his mouth after wedging the edge of the coffin open with a pry bar. Then, he hesitated, looking to Julius as if in confirmation.

The Toscan physician nodded, and the coffin lid was kicked away.

The Araluen sergeant recognized a living man playing dead as soon as he stood up in the stirrups to see inside. However, he had no chance to say anything before a _gladius_ sword slid into his back and burst out his front in a shower of blood.

The man gargled, grasping at the wide blade as though to pull it out even as he slid sideways from the saddle. His horse balked and squealed at the smell of fresh blood, bolting away before its rider even hit the ground.

With bellowing cries of outrage, the Araluans drew their weapons and charged. Giovanni, having been the one to slay their sergeant, turned on the lead soldier and met his sword with his own bloodied _gladius_. There was a reverberating clang as the blades met and bounced apart. The soldier continued the charge, but as he did so, Giovanni slashed down with his sword, cutting a gash in his horse's flanks. The beast screamed and the rider lost control, but the Toscan was already focusing on the next Araluan soldier.

It was a massacre. Outnumbered and surrounded, the brave king's men fought valiantly even as they died, one after the other. Each held their own for as long as they could, the hellish din created filling the air and drifting north on the wind.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Halt perked. Abelard had reacted to something. The horse's ears twitched, on full alert, a deep rumbling let loose in his chest.

"Still," the Ranger said softly, and Horace brought Kicker to a stop beside him.

The knight longed to ask, "What is it?" yet knew that he would get no answer but a warning glower. Halt was staring south, towards their destination, where Abelard's ears were pointing. Horace strained his own hearing, standing up in the stirrups and closing his eyes as he listened to the wind.

There. Through the everlasting wails of the Cliffs of Clamour, the telltale sound of metal clashing on metal. Something was happening up ahead, loud enough for the sounds to be carried over a mile on the wind.

Halt prepared to move.

"All haste," he said.

* * *

**Okay, that was a pathetic amount of action -.- Next chapter is shorter but has more happening! Good thing I'm updating twice XD**


	15. Flight

~15~ Flight

The clash of bloodied metal and the screams of torn throats seemed to suck the fatigue right from Will's bones. He grabbed the edge of the coffin and hauled himself up, trying to take stock of the situation.

The remaining five Araluan soldiers were now fighting as a single group, locking shields to keep the Toscans at bay. Briefly, Will's mind was cast back five years, to when he was in Toscana, viewing their military perform admirable defence strategies that involved locking shields with neighbouring soldiers. Gradually, they would force the enemies back, back, jabbing out with swords like sly serpent tongues when the opportunity revealed itself. Such tactics had spread with growing interest to Araluen, and now, it was being used against the rogue Toscans with incredible efficiency.

But they were only five, outnumbered, and even as Will watched, a Toscan, Ettore, picked up his bow from the cockpit of the hearse and shot a deadly arrow at one of the Araluans' horses. The poor beast squealed, rearing and flailing dangerous hooves. The horses beside it cringed away, and as it fell, a gaping, devastating hole was opened, and the Toscans surged inside.

Will uttered a feeble curse as he fell back inside the coffin, but with considerable effort, he dragged himself out again, rolling over the edge of the wooden box until he landed among the fresh flowers. There was too much commotion to be worrying about any more bees.

_Maybe I could take Ettore's bow_, he thought, but then cast aside the suggestion. He was barely strong enough to stand. How would he be able to wrestle a weapon away from a strong man?

Heart pounding like the frantic gallop of a horse, Will's eyes flitted about in search of Julius. But in the chaos, he knew that his escape may very well be covered.

There was an earsplitting scream, higher in pitch than the others, and the Ranger automatically sought its source. With horror, he saw another Araluan, this one a youth no older than eighteen or nineteen, howl as Giovanni's blade lopped off his hand at the wrist. A moment later, the _gladius_ was in the boy's belly. Will turned away before the limp body hit the ground.

_Probably his first patrol_, he thought in nauseated despair. _Oh God, I did this_.

Without realizing it, Will had crawled to the rear of the carriage and was preparing to drop off the end. There was a clear stretch of land between himself and the trees, and he figured that, even without his cloak, as long as he reached those trees, he would be able to make his escape.

But it was as though someone had anticipated the attempt. Still lying on his front, head hanging over the rear of the hearse, he was suddenly blasted in the face by a puff of hot wind. It took half of his energy to lift his head in question, and he found himself face to nose with a horse's muzzle.

_What the—?_

"You'll never make it, Will!"

The Ranger recognized the hesitant, thickly accented words of Niccolò, Julius' half brother.

Without even thinking, Will's hand lashed out and he snagged the horse's bridle. The beast, already unsettled by the melee, squealed and tried to back away, but the Ranger clung on, desperation lending him strength.

"Let go!" Niccolò screamed, trying to wheel the steed about. Instead, the unfortunate horse succumbed to the pain in its mouth when Will yanked on the bit, and it moved forward a few paces, just enough to bring the Toscan into range.

Will saw the gangly youth ball his fists, ready to swing in defence, but before he could, the Ranger jabbed at the pressure point in Niccolò's side. He may be weak, but it didn't take much strength to send a man reeling in distress when struck at the right place. The Toscan cringed away, face creased in confusion, and then Will's hand snapped up again to jab him in the throat.

Instinctively, Niccolò released both hands from the reins and grasped at his neck, eyes bulging in shock. It was all Will needed to overbalance him and send him toppling from the saddle. The horse nearly bolted in fear, but he managed to hold on even as it pulled away from the carriage. Sagging half on, half off the saddle, desperately latching on to the pommel like some demented spider, Will gradually pulled himself on proper, taking up the reins and curbing the beast before it fled with reckless abandon.

A moment later, he wished he _had_ let it flee with reckless abandon: he glanced to the melee, only to see one of the two remaining Araluan soldiers fall, an axe buried in his sternum. He was trying to scream, but only a spattering of blood emitted from his mouth before he fell back to earth, his panicked steed bolting and bowling over three Toscans.

The last Araluen howled in agony, but not from physical pain. That agony turned into a hot, fiery rage, the accumulated horror of seeing all his companions fall rearing up and imploding into a frenzied attack on every living thing. The soldier reared his horse, and the battle-bred beast kicked over Ducio and trampled him into the ground. The snapping of bones went unheard as the horse then screamed and bit at another Toscan, whilst its rider slashed at Giovanni, only to be blocked by the warrior's _gladius_.

Having slain two Toscans already, the brave soldier's blade was already spraying blood everywhere as he hacked again and again at any and every figure in the roiling fray. He dealt a cut there, a deep laceration there...

But his heroic efforts could not save him. Bombarded on all sides by foes on the ground as well as on horseback, swords slid past his defences and delved into his armour, or else crippled his loyal steed with slashing blows to its legs. Finally, horse and rider could withstand no more, and as they vanished beneath the roiling horde of Toscans, Will looked away, a painful fist clenching his heart.

"Yah!" he yelled, smacking his stolen horse on the rump and tearing the reins around. The beast immediately wheeled to the north, and he had to hold on tightly with his weak legs in order to not bounce back and off its rump.

There were several cries of alarm when the Toscans finally realized that their prisoner was escaping, but Will concentrated solely on the flight, bowing over the grey's pounding neck and being jostled around wildly for his troubles. Even over the thunder, he could hear Julius' roaring orders, spat out in rapid Toscan.

"Go!" Will urged the beast, mourning the unavailability of his own little Tug, but knowing that what he had was what he had.

Trees flashed past in green and black blurs, the snaking road spraying up behind the horse's hooves in a hail of clods and stones. The grey was quick, fortunately, its speed due not only to well breeding, but to the instinct to escape the carnage behind it.

As the bumping and jostling continued, Will became aware of the growing ache in both his legs – the Wargal wound in one, and the bee sting in the other. They chaffed constantly against the leather of the saddle, and the pain was beginning to make his head feel thick.

_No! Must—keep—going!_

He shook his head and gritted his teeth, dedicating his body to move in sync with the horse's and smooth out the flight. Every other wound, bruises and cuts mostly, courtesy of the Toscans the night he was abducted, was just a wordless throb of nothing. He could stand it. He had to.

Suddenly, the road ceased to curve, and a long stretch was rolled out before him. Even though he was bumping around, Will could see the small, tiny figure at the other end of the stretch. The only detail he could make out was that it was on a horse, and it was in green.

_No, how is this possible? Not...Halt!_

Dare he speak out? Dare he assume it be the one man he so dearly wished to see in his time of need? It could be anybody!

"Halt," he rasped, voice thick with longing. "Halt!"

The horse was beginning to slow to a more comfortable speed, now that the skirmish was no longer in sight and it could not smell the unforgettable stench of raw blood and fear. Taking Will by surprise, the Ranger had to take a few seconds in order to get into the rhythm of the brisk canter, and, in doing so, he was able to detect the growing storm behind him. His mouth suddenly became drier than the Arridan deserts.

"Ettore, shoot his horse! Shoot _him_ and I'll feed your gizzard to the wolves!"

"Halt!" Will roared. His voice cracked in desperation. "HALT!"

The grey squealed as Will smacked its rump, but he was too late to make any headway before the pursuing Toscans streaked around the bend, at least seven of them on horseback. As the grey surged into a gallop, the twang of a bow was succeeded by the buzzing of an arrow passing mere feet to Will's right flank.

Even if the tiny figure at the other end of the road was indeed Halt, and even if he was on a swift Ranger steed, he was simply too far away to do anything. Will had accepted this by the time the next arrow found its mark and his horse screamed in agony, its back leg ceasing to function and sending the whole works crashing to the ground in a chaotic tumble.

Will's cry of pain was cut off abruptly when he was winded, thrown forward from the felled grey and sent rolling down the road. Abrasions opened wherever possible, and a horrible kink exploded across his neck as he tumbled over his shoulder awkwardly. When he finally stopped on his stomach, he gasped like a landed fish, pain flashing stars before his eyes. He found that he couldn't move without a shearing pain in his neck.

"Ah—ow..."

There were the muddled nothings of frantic orders, but Will had no ears for those.

_No...Halt..._

A rough hand grasped his shirt from the back of his neck, lifting him from the ground. Being as short as he was, the man who bore him easily hoisted him onto his horse, holding him in the saddle in front of him for stability. Still dazed, Will's head lolled sluggishly, sometimes backwards to rest on his captor's shoulder.

There were more hurried orders, and then suddenly the thunder of seven horses once more filled the air like a storm. The pain almost pushed the Ranger over the edge of oblivion, and he would have welcomed its bottomless pit for the sake of escaping the torment. But the factor causing the agony was keeping him from the brink as well as pushing him to it – the incessant jerks of a galloping horse.

"Go, go, go!" Julius barked at his men, not even daring to glance over his shoulder at the cynical figure at the end of the road, at least four hundred metres away.

_Or else, not so cynical_, he mused morbidly._ How did he find us?_

The Toscans had abandoned the hearse in favour of speed and agility. Having to catch up to the fleeing Ranger, they could not afford to turn it around, and now it remained in the middle of the road, the horses cut loose, amidst the bloody carnage of bodies and gore. Crows had already begun to circle when the decreased company charged through the remains, even leaving the bodies of Ducio and other fallen companions in favour of escaping with their lives. The Cliffs of Clamour, their haunting chorus heard on the wind, were within the mile.

"Here!" Julius barked, wheeling his horse about to crash though the thick foliage covering the entrance to the path. His men followed quickly, not bothering to cover the tracks that would be discovered by their pursuer anyway.

The horses tried to slow down before the obscure path, but the Toscans drove them onward, blindly throwing up arms to fend off whip-like lashes of reproachful trees. Many found themselves with mouthfuls of leaves by the time the gently sloping hill of rock appeared before them suddenly. Reining the horses in, they then tried to lead them into the crevice that split the hill in two, delving into darkness. The wail of the cliffs and endless racket of the birds was louder now, and the unsettled beasts flared their nostrils in refusal, balking at the thought of entering such a narrow space willingly.

"For the love of the gods! Leave them!" Julius snapped, flying from the saddle and making for the passage. Niccolò and Pietra ducked in first, and Julius remained to see that Will Treaty was taken down from the saddle gently, to be carried by one of the strongest men, Vieri.

"Giovanni, cover the rear," the physician ordered their best warrior, who nodded grimly, his bloodied _gladius_ sword unsheathed and at the ready. "Rangers have insurmountable archery skills – never keep an open stretch between you and whoever is following us."

"I'm not a fool, Julius! Just get that damned man to the _Sterna Argento__!"_ Giovanni turned to go backwards down the crevice, trying not to shiver at the hellish cacophony of the cliffs.

"Ettore, stay behind and follow anyone who falls in behind us. If need be, stab them in the back, to hell with honour!"

"As you wish, _signore_," said Ettore with a slight bow.

* * *

**So there's the suspense out of the way...now let's look into some actual combat...**


	16. The Cliffs of Clamour

**Okay, so...I wasn't sure how to split this section. It just sort of kept going and...if I broke it, it wouldn't be a cliffie, it would be an interruption. So brace yourself for a _long_ one :3 Hope you like it!**

* * *

~16~ The Cliffs of Clamour

Halt had seen the figures in the distance, but could make out no details. He thought he heard his name, but it could have been his imagination. What he was absolutely sure of was that whoever had caused the miniature dust storm at the end of that four hundred metre or so distance, they were desperate not to get caught up.

Kicker rounded the bend and charged into pace with Abelard, his long strides eating the road ravenously.

"Did you see something?" Horace bellowed over the rumble, having to look down to view the smaller man on the smaller horse. Halt pointed at the sky.

"The question is, _do_ I see something!" the Ranger called back. "Look at the birds! Something's happened."

The slowly circling crows gradually began to land as what might be the blood of a battleground began to cool. It may also be a dead deer carcass, but Halt was willing to bet his bow that something had happened ahead, something that had involved the faceless figures at the other end of the stretch of road.

"Where's Gilan?" Halt asked, and the knight permitted a slight jerk of his head.

"Behind with Crowley. I don't know if he's seen what we've seen or if he's following."

Halt now concentrated on the path, squinting at what looked like a lifeless lump in the middle of the road. As they drew nearer, he recognized it as the dead body of a grey horse. There was an arrow in its hindquarters, but also a bloodied slash across its throat. It must have been shot, considered useless, and slaughtered to save it from suffering.

Though he longed to continue charging ahead, Halt eased Abelard into a trot and then a walk, stopping altogether once abreast with the corpse. The road had been disturbed, that much was clear, with hoof prints and gouges in the dirt, the results of chaotic motion.

"Halt!"

The old Ranger turned in the saddle, seeing Horace up ahead.

"The crows are landing. I don't think it's a dead animal."

Setting Abelard into a canter, Halt rode beside Horace as they snaked the twisting road, their vision obscured by the thick trees. They were cautious in their haste, wary in their determination to discover what had happened.

On the final bend, they finally found their quarry.

An abandoned carriage, burdened by an empty coffin and bunches of wildflowers, sat in the middle of the trail, surrounded by the corpses of about ten men and eight horses. Blood soaked into the earth, staining the road crimson, already attracting flies as well as the birds.

Both of their steeds snorted at the smell, eyes lolling, but Halt calmed Abelard with a few pats to the neck and Horace simply dismounted, checking the first corpse for life.

"Araluan patrolmen," he said quietly, recognizing the emblems and armour of the felled soldiers. "Seven of them. They were overwhelmed."

"And these others. They're Toscans," said Halt, looking down at the other olive-skinned bodies. They had the clothes of mourners, which the Ranger thought queer until he remembered the carriage with the coffin and flowers. His mind was already configuring the Toscan's plan by the time a small sound dragged his attention to where a man lay trapped beneath the body of another. It was one of the Araluan patrolmen. He was alive.

"P-p-please..."

Horace threw himself by the young man's side and pulled the corpse off from atop him. Halt dismounted as well, already reaching for something to staunch the flow of a wound in the Araluan's belly. Then he noticed that the pale youth's hand had been severed, and knew that it would be for nought.

"They have...they have..." the patrolman stammered weakly, throat gurgling as blood filled his lungs. Halt stared pityingly down at him. He couldn't have been more than eighteen.

"Don't talk," said Horace, who had torn the hem of a tunic from one of the fallen Toscans and was using it to bind the youth's wrist, despite the futility of it all. "You're safe now."

"No," the boy gasped. He grabbed Horace's arm with his left hand, clenching until it hurt. "Bastards...killed my friends..."

"Shh..."

The youth coughed once, twice, his body jerking as his soul detached itself from his bones and departed with his final breath. His eyes, once alight with fear and adrenaline, faded, veiled with the mists of mortality.

Swallowing, Horace reached over with one hand and closed those eyes. He then used his sleeve to clean the trickle of blood that had seeped down the side of the soldier's cheek, and for a moment, he could almost believe that he was sleeping.

"He was just a boy," the knight muttered.

Halt regarded his companion with a level of wistfulness. Horace had been younger than the soldier before him when he fought and defeated Lord Morgarath, master of the Mountains of Rain and Night. And then, not much later, travelled with the Ranger though the outlandish backroads of Gallica and into Skandia, felling lesser knights like ninepins. He'd faced and defeated hordes of Temujai before he could grow a decent beard.

Halt looked away, down the road, trying to swallow down the stone in his throat.

"Boy or man, he died doing his duty. Many die doing less than that. Come, we must press on."

By the knight's white knuckles, flashing ashen as he took up Kicker's reins, Halt recognized the younger man's fury at such injustice.

_And he has a right to be_, he thought despondently. _Why is it that the young diminish, and the old linger...?_

Eager to leave the butchery behind, Abelard and Kicker bounded ahead at their masters' bidding, and the pursuit of the kidnapping Toscans proceeded.

Less than a mile later, Halt recognized immediately where their quarry had gone—a blind fool could see. Crashing straight through the undergrowth, the Toscans must have known exactly where the path to the Cliffs of Clamour were, for bushes and saplings at a precise point on the side of the road had been crushed and flattened out of the way hastily.

"Two guesses where we go next," said Horace dully, glowering into the depths of the woods as though seeking the man who had slain the young soldier.

They turned their horses to enter the man-made trail, ducking beneath torn branches and boughs. The eery howls of the cliffs rose in crescendo with every pace they took.

Horace kept his voice lowered as he addressed his companion. "Do you suppose they would have left someone behind to watch for us? To set a trap?"

Halt nodded. "It's entirely possible." His eyes never ceased to roam from shadow to shadow, watching for any concealed bowmen. Horace said nothing more.

Abelard's ears twitched, and a deep rumbling in his chest was detected by his rider. Halt could see nothing, but he trusted his horse's senses more than his own, especially when it came to such dense conditions.

He lifted a hand, and Horace stopped, knowing that asking questions would get him nothing but a reproachful glare. Halt dismounted, and his companion followed, but while the Ranger's practised feet made no sound on the deadfall of the forest floor, Horace's blundering boots broke every twig within a metre radius.

_Subtle as a moose_, Halt thought witheringly, but said nothing.

About twenty metres further, the Ranger discovered what had alerted Abelard. About seven or eight horses had been left at the opening of a dark, sinister crevice that split a gradually sloping stone hill in two. The beasts were pawing at the earth or else grazing dozily, their use for the Toscans at an end.

"Is that...the way to the cliffs?" Horace asked lowly, turning a sickly shade of white. "The _only_ way?"

Halt lifted a surreptitious eyebrow. "Well, you could climb up there and throw yourself over the edge, but the landing's a _tad_ messy."

Horace swallowed as the stared into the endless gullet of the hill. "I think I'll take my chances."

The Ranger now turned fully towards him, spine straight, head back, but the display was pretty anticlimactic considering that he barely made it up to Horace's shoulders. "Will's down there."

Like magic, the steely disposition and cold determination returned to the knight's features, though he sweated still.

"Let's get this over with."

Horace went down first, and Halt did not protest. It would be practical for the armoured man with a shield and sword to take the fore – if there was a swordsman or archer hiding in wait down there, Horace would be able to engage him while Halt could cover him with his longbow. If the Ranger was in front, Horace would get stuck behind and be next to useless. In addition, it was not a straight passage; many sharp turns prevented a clear line of attack, and in close quarters, Halt would be hard tried in getting a decent shot should they be surprised.

The sun had climbed to a position that allowed some light to illuminate the passage, the rock above reflecting down to the faces below. Halt could see clear enough to aim at a target comfortably, but Horace, he could tell, was still wary.

The passage sloped – often to the point where the two companions had to slide down on their rear ends in order to retain any kind of control – and became narrow enough to make Halt hesitate, but for Horace, it was as though he was being constricted by a great snake, and he froze solid.

"I...I can't do this..." His voice sounded loud in the crevice, and the Ranger winced despite knowing that the words would be drowned by the haunting chorus of the cliffs.

"You must—"

"It's too narrow..." The knight tried to back up, but he was stopped by Halt, who remained as stolid as a statue.

"We're already half way! And _that_ half has Will."

Again, the sound of his best friend's name was like a bravery tonic. For the three steps of retreat he'd taken, Horace took six in advance. He was sweating, he was tense, but he was pushing forward.

"Just one more step...and another...The walls are _not_ closing in to crush me..."

Halt let him mutter his own words of encouragement, barely hearing them himself as the din became louder and louder. He could differentiate between the birds, the wind, and the tide on the shore now.

The hairs on the back of his neck had the sudden inclination to test and see which of them was longest. Slowly turning his head, Halt glanced up the way they came. Was someone following them?

He strained his ears, but could detect nothing. Even so, he cast his senses back through the passage as well as forward. It would not do to be caught and surrounded because of a bout of negligence.

"Not far...not far now...Oh, God. Sunlight!"

"Horace, wait!"

But the knight had already surged forward, the last of his forcefully calm resolve shattering at the prospect of open space. Indeed, a narrow, vertical line of light was now just before them, sunlight blinding them to the actual cove itself, and to anything that remained just beyond...

"Don't be a fool—!"

The blade came out of nowhere. It was only by Horace's quick thinking and natural skill that it didn't end up in his chest.

His shield flashed up to deflect the wide sword, which had made its horizontal swing just as Horace stepped from the passage exit. The reverberating clang echoed up through the crevice, almost unheard because of the cliffs' earsplitting racket.

Halt had an arrow to his bow half a moment later, but he had nothing to shoot at. The blinding, restricting light barely let his dark-adjusted eyes see the fight that had commenced at the passage opening.

_Damned fool!_ he raged inwardly. _Throwing himself into unknown waters like a child!_

The clashing of blades and the cacophony of birds and ocean winds was soon joined by the howling of men, and Halt had no doubt that it was the Toscans, coming to the aid of their kin. The Ranger had to act, fast.

Horace ducked beneath the Toscan's next attack, vaguely aware that more of them were approaching. He knew he had to put his back against something, else he be taken from behind.

Dancing to the side, he managed to fight his way around his foe, who was large, arms bulging muscle beneath the black tunic he wore. Like the dead Toscans the knight and Halt had found on the road, he was dressed like a mourner. Clearly, it was all a ruse, but Horace had no time to dwell on it. He now had his back to the cliff face, and he was able to view the landscape and his predicament.

He was in the cove proper now, on the crescent beach that curled around the north bank. The rest of the basin was water, lapping and sighing against the rocky shore. Over a hundred metres the jagged cliffs rose, all the way around the cove, the tips of trees seen on the seaward side. Far across from him, there was a deep shadow, indicating the discreet entrance to the secluded bay.

The noise, though. The ceaseless din of thousands upon thousands of seabirds, all floating on thermals or else roosting in their nests built into the pockets littering the cliffs' walls. Their pale wings turned the sky white whenever a great flock rose up in sync, startled by something or else preparing to fish as a single group.

What finally caught Horace's attention was what was like a great bird itself. In the middle of the cove was a lean, lateen-sailed ship, sitting ready upon the salty waters, just as he had anticipated days ago. The Toscans' escape ship.

It was a beautiful sight, admittedly, but one he could not spare another moment to admire. Toscans were surging towards him, at least eighteen of them at once, and he could see a dingy of five more coming about, to return to shore.

_Oh no_.

He parried an attack from the first enemy, the one who had nearly killed him as soon as he entered the cove. There was a triumphant gleam in his eye, the look of a man who could taste victory already. Horace was easily holding his own, to be sure, but with the other Toscans charging up to his aid—

The knight had forgotten about Halt right until the point when a foreigner fell, scream silenced by a black arrow in his neck. His companions hesitated, unable to see the archer concealing himself in the depths of the passage. Then another of them collapsed, and they dashed to either side of the passage opening, tripping over each other to escape the phantom archer.

Horace used the distraction to push his initial opponent back, but then he could not help but flinch as something clattered just behind his head. It was the sound of an arrow colliding with the stone. The Toscans had four archers of their own, and they were lining up along the shore.

_But they wouldn't dare...they may shoot one of their own!_

Even so, two more arrows clacked uselessly against the cliff face near Horace, and it took all of his willpower to not obey his instincts and duck for cover.

Halt dispatched the first of the Toscan archers from the depths of the passage, but then the others took a hint and threw themselves to the ground. The angle was too sloped for the Ranger to see them, but if any of them was to raise his head to peek...

Encouraged that the phantom bowman would not come out of the passage, the Toscans on Horace's side now turned to attack him. Any brave and foolish man who tried to cross the small but dangerous no-man's-land, over to the knight's side, was shot at. Those on the small dingy, who were just landing, had to throw themselves down beside the archers along the shore. There were still twenty of them.

"Finish him off, Giovanni!" a thickly accented voice barked. It was one of four men trapped on the other side of the passage opening, too wary and frightened of the phantom bowmen—that was to say, Halt—to risk crossing.

Giovanni, Horace's attacker, suddenly put on a burst of speed that took all of the knight's skill to match. He fought with a different style, one that involved avoiding their blade edges from sliding against each other, whatever it took. Horace figured that it had a lot to do with the fact that Giovanni's sword had no crossbar to protect his hand.

Movement at the corner of his eye alerted him to the Toscan who was coming up from behind. Subsequent to a neat parry, Horace whirled around and wounded the attacker, driving him back and allowing the knight to engage Giovanni once more. But he knew he couldn't hold them all off forever.

_Halt, get your Ranger arse out here!_

He gasped as Giovanni's sword glanced off his gardbrace. In allowing himself to be distracted, he had let his shield sag, opening himself to what could have been a crippling blow. Reining in his fury, he channelled his desire to strike in anger into a controlled, disciplined line of attack, one that would have made any seasoned warrior pause.

The foreigners, every one of them that had charged up to overwhelm the Araluan knight, balked and hesitated. Horace moved with such speed and agility, yet with power and strength, that he defended himself against Giovanni and two other foes with seemingly minute effort. His blade was a graceful extension of his arm. His shield was a natural defence. He struck with the surety and finality of a viper, and before they knew it, three Toscans lay dead at his feet, ruby blood seeping into the rocky shore. Now it was only Giovanni and another Toscan before him, the others still pinned by Halt.

"He's just one man!" a voice roared in the background, the same voice that had goaded Giovanni to defeat Horace. "Rush him! Slaughter him!" The words became a furious ramble of the Toscan tongue, but the knight's foes understood every word even if he didn't, and suddenly, the eight that had concealed themselves on the shore from Halt's arrows leaped up and charged, and Horace was over his head in sailors.

He struck high, he struck low, he clobbered with his sword hilt and bashed with his shield. He severed a man's arm and then hamstrung a leg. He blinded someone with a sharp punch to the nose and knocked out a second with his elbow. Yet for all his prowess, he felt a gash on his forehead bleed into his eye, a cut open on his arm beneath his chain mail, and a hammer blow to the lower back winded and nearly knocked him over.

In a matter of moments, however, the unarmoured and outmatched Toscans fell back, another two dead and many of them wounded. Horace, boiling with barely suppressed rage, panted as he glared after them. Even Giovanni had sustained an injury in the chaos, and he did not look pleased.

"_Tu morirai, guerriero_," the foreigner hissed, sweat matting the hair on his forehead.

There were still fifteen Toscans on the beach. Eight faced Horace, and seven were trapped on the other side of the passage opening. In the slight lull, Horace was finally able to notice something.

_Where's Will?_

Briefly, his eyes were cast to the lonely ship in the middle of the cove, moored but looking ready to hoist anchor and flee.

_What if we were mistaken?_ he thought with growing despair. _What if these were just pirates? Smugglers? What if we lost Will and have been following the wrong trail?_

_No!_ he growled at himself. _They must have taken him aboard the ship already. These are the men awaiting their turn to board the dingy._

Giovanni suddenly smirked, and his next words were almost lost to the ceaseless racket of the cliffs' winds and birds.

"Such a young man," he said. "Too young to taste death just yet. Surrender, son, and we will not harm you."

Horace barred his teeth. "You kidnapped my friend. You will not leave these shores alive."

Giovanni laughed. "Bold words from such a green tongue." He raised his wide-bladed sword. "'Tis a shame, really. I should have enjoyed watching you fight in the Arena as a Champion."

The seven other Toscans prepared to swarm Horace. The knight, already surrounded by several corpses, figured that he would be able to hold his own – with a stroke of luck. But if the other four, still pinned by Halt, were to charge as well...

Movement caught his eye, and for a moment, Horace thought he saw Halt emerging from the crevice. His stomach became ice. If the old man was to try and take them all on at such a close range, even with his skill he would be overwhelmed within seconds, and slain.

A heartbeat later, the knight was relieved. It wasn't Halt emerging from the passage. Another heartbeat later, his frozen stomach shattered. _It wasn't Halt emerging from the passage!_

A Toscan in funeral garb raised his sword to the sky, crying out in triumph. He must have been left behind to ambush any followers unawares.

"No! Halt!"

Giovanni's teeth flashed behind his well-trimmed beard. "_Ucciderlo_," he said.

Like a wave of destruction, the sixteen Toscans rushed Horace all at once. And he knew no level of expertise or natural prowess could save him now. He lifted his sword and shield in a last valiant attempt to survive—

Screams. Screams that pierced the deafening cacophony of the Cliffs of Clamour. Screams that were not his own.

The horde of foreigners faltered, turning cautiously towards the source of the agonized wails.

A man at the rear was falling, the imposing shaft of an arrow sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Even as the others turned, another fell to a waspish arrow, yet this one collapsed without a sound.

The Toscans' heaved a collective gasp. There, by the passage opening, was a sinister figure in a green mottled cloak, who even now was tossing his longbow aside and drawing a lethal, elegant blade.

"Sixteen against one," the Ranger said, tutting morosely. "Those aren't really fair odds, now, are they?"

"_Gilan!"_

Three Toscans overcame their shock first and charged the Ranger simultaneously, but even as Horace watched, Gilan blocked the first blow, neatly sliced across the offender's belly and spilled his innards to the rocky beach. Following a clean, graceful pirouette, he dispatched the second Toscan and then locked swords with the third. Gilan glared into the fearful eyes of the man and smirked.

"But eleven against two...I think I can work with that," he said, before throwing the Toscan's sword aside with his own and sliding it into his opponent's heart, killing him almost instantly.

That enemy had barely hit the beach before Horace re-initiated the attack from his quarter. Though outnumbered, travel-weary and burdened with despair, the pair of Araluan swordsmen put up a fight that the Toscans who survived the ordeal would forever relive in their darkest of nightmares.

* * *

Julius was trapped in the midst of the confusing fray, an angry Araluan knight on one side and an equally pissed Ranger on the other. Even with their superior numbers, the sailors of the _Sterna Argento_ were falling, cut down by vengeful Araluan swords. The tide that had been in his favour for so long was now turning against him, threatening to scuttle his boat.

It had been a good idea to leave Ettore behind to catch any pursuers; still, he could not believe it when the man emerged from the passage in triumph, having dispatched the lurking Ranger within. A mere mercenary, taking down an Araluan Ranger in his own element! Julius made a mental note to reward the man...should any of them escape the current battle at hand. After all, he had not expected yet another Ranger to come bursting out of the passage, wielding his sword like he'd been born with it. With an inward harrumph, Julius thought about what could have happened had they not taken Will Treaty aboard the _Sterna Argento_ on the first trip across the cove.

"This is madness," he hissed to himself. In Toscan, he roared, "We must leave! Ettore, Giovanni, on me!"

The pair of them, still facing the two raging warriors, backed down the beach towards where the dingy that was to take them to the Silver Tern sat moored. Julius had clambered aboard by the time others noticed the retreat and followed, defending themselves vigorously, desperately. But the dingy could only hold five, and if everyone was to climb on, even with their now depleted numbers, it would succumb to the weight and submerge.

"Cast off!" Julius barked.

"But what of the others?" Giovanni demanded, glaring at his superior. Even so, he took up the nearest oar and prepared to sweep.

"They're sailors, they can swim!" the physician barked, even though he knew this wasn't the case for most of the marooned Toscans.

There were very few sailors left alive on the beach, each of them the bravest, or else the most unfortunate, of them all. Julius tried to pretend ignorance, but the thought of abandoning those men hung as thickly as a rain-drenched cloak around him. He glared angrily at the two Araluan warriors, studying their faces as though to memorize them. After a brief but careful consideration, he decided which of them he hated the most.

"Ettore," he growled. "Shoot the Ranger."

* * *

Horace could only watch in awe as Gilan fought with the effortless grace a man with twice his years and twice his experience could not surpass. The Ranger lifted his sword in a neat parry to an overhand swing, then spun around and swept his enemy's feet right from under him, just in time to deflect another oncoming blow from the side. He stepped over the fallen Toscan to bring himself close to the second foe, extinguishing both of their ability to swing their swords. As fast and deadly as a striking heron, Gilan slammed his head into the enemy's nose, blood spattering everywhere in a gory rain. The man yelped and clasped his face in agony, blinded by tears, but then he was dead a moment later, bleeding profusely from a stab in the chest.

Three men surged upon Gilan at once.

"Come on, you bastards," he growled, and danced to the side to avoid being surrounded. He parried an attack from the rightmost foreigner, and then his blade slashed down to cut across the man's thigh. He screamed and toppled, clutching his leg, and Gilan turned his focus on the next one, who was proving to be a more formidable opponent as he managed to block three strikes before locking his sword with the Ranger's, keeping them crossed betwixt them.

Gilan glared at the Toscan, who was glowering back but had beads of sweat drenching his face, and there was a raw, animal terror in his eyes. He had survived so long only because the fear of death urged him to.

With a wild cry, the man threw his weight into his arms and shoved Gilan back, to engage him once more in a desperate attempt to survive. The Ranger lost a step, another, but then he moved in a seamless sequence of motion that regained the lost ground, and then suddenly, the Toscan's sword was flying from his grasp, to clatter somewhere on the rocky shore. But he was not done. A second cry heralded his next attack, a dagger flashing into his hand and his other lashing out to grasp Gilan's sword wrist, keeping it at bay.

Gilan was faster. In a blur of silver almost too quick to see, his throwing knife was out and stabbing the Toscan twice in the belly before flashing back into its scabbard. The man fell, eyes bulging with shock and fear—and glazed with death.

The third foreigner that had moved in to surround Gilan balked, ashen, terrified of the Ranger's skill as a swordsman. Before, he had the confidence that he and his companions could deal with a mere two men, but now...

"_Dio_," he whimpered in Toscan. _God_. He backed several steps, seeking the numbers they had previously attained. No more. He had not the will to lift his sword in defence as the Ranger's fell upon him.

Horace felled almost as many foreigners as Gilan, and before he knew it, they were face to face on the beach, having fought through the fray to each other. Neither smiled or showed any signs of recognition. They were only conscious of the blood on each other's swords and spattered on their clothes.

The panicked Toscans had begun to disperse, making for the water and the dingy that was anchored there. Three were clambering on even as they launched it, picking up oars and preparing to sweep. Horace recognized Giovanni and the Toscan who had sneaked up on Halt, but the third was unfamiliar.

_Cowards_, he snarled inwardly, engaging another foe with a will. There was no time to worry about them now.

One foreigner risked the chilled waters of the cove and began to swim for the ship a hundred metres off shore. He appeared to be the only one who could, for the remaining three turned to face the avenging warriors, preferring the odds of surviving the sword than the certainty of drowning in the icy cove.

Horace and Gilan stood side by side, regarding the trembling three like a pair of wolves would helpless lambs.

"Glad you could lend a hand," said Horace casually, not tearing his eyes from the Toscans.

"My pleasure," Gilan replied. His breathing was even and calm despite the exertions. "Now what are we to do with these three?"

In answer, the knight lifted his sword and pointed at the nearest bobbing Adam's apple.

"Where is that ship taking Will Treaty? To Romena?"

Predictably, the man said nothing. Horace shrugged.

"Worth the shot."

Gilan grinned, opening his mouth to speak—but that grin contorted into a grimace of pain as a sharp whistle was succeeded by a dull, wet thud.

Horace could only stare in horror at the arrow in Gilan's shoulder, which the Ranger grasped even as he staggered back from the impact.

"_No!"_

The Toscans were on Gilan in a heartbeat, sharks swarming in for the kill. But Horace would not have it. With a raging, blood-curling cry, he charged into their midst and sent them scattering like chickens. Two stumbled, struggling to retain their footing over the uneven shore, while the third tripped over Gilan and landed on his side, trapping his sword beneath his own body.

Merciless, disregarding honour, Horace lifted his sword to slay the fallen man, but then lashed diagonally to block an incoming attack from the right. The man did not suspect such a swift reaction and recoiled. He could do nothing as Horace swung his shield up at an angle, bashing the Toscan beneath the chin. A moment later, the shield edge was slammed into his exposed throat, and something broke. The foreigner fell limply, gargling for only a moment before he ceased to breathe entirely.

Horace turned to face the fallen Toscan, ignoring the third who had turned to flee. To his disgust, he saw that his foe had wet himself, a dark stain leaking down his trousers.

"_M__i arrendo_," he whimpered. "_Misericordia, misericordia!"_

The knight didn't understand what he was saying, but it sounded so pathetic, he could only assume that he was begging for his life.

He took a step towards him, and the Toscan scrambled to his feet, whirling around to flee. Horace bounded forward and tackled him, but the man squirmed, preventing the knight from getting a good grip on him. He saw the flash of a dagger and instinctively threw himself away, picking up his sword and swinging it in one graceful motion. The Toscan was dead a moment later.

Now for the third...

Horace stood, turned, and was confronted by the last Toscan sailor, who had picked up a fallen bow and was aiming it with trembling hands right at the knight's chest. At such close range, he couldn't miss.

"_Morite!"_ he roared.

It seemed that Horace had only the time to blink before the whirr of spinning blades signified the foreigner's doom. With twin thunks, two Ranger throwing knives embedded themselves in the man's body, one right after the other. The first ended up in his chest. The second one entered his eye. He was dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

Horace gasped, releasing the pent-up air he hadn't known he was holding. He had to use his sword to keep himself from collapsing to his knees, his legs were shaking so badly.

"Thank God," he breathed, concentrating on steadying his limbs.

"Thank God? Thank _me_," came a slightly feeble voice.

"Gilan!" Horace fell by the Ranger's side, his thoughts thick and sluggish at the sight of the arrow in his right shoulder. Any further to the left, and it would have punctured his lung.

"Not a bad throw, eh?" Gilan rasped, face creased with pain. "From on the ground, target viewed from upside down and knife thrown with my left hand. Too bad there weren't more people around to see it."

"You threw them both?" asked Horace, baffled. "But I thought—"

"Like hell, he did," came a new voice, scoffing yet also dazed. "Wow. I'm gone for five minutes and he forgets all about me. Some friend he is."

"Halt! You're alive!"

The grizzled old Ranger was emerging from the passage opening, using the stone walls to help him stand. He looked faint, and winced at the piercing light.

"Of course I am, you great lummox!" Halt pulled his hood up to protect his eyes from the brightness, cursing all the while. "Damn coward got me from behind. Never heard him coming until it was too late. Lord blast these cliffs."

"I thought you were dead—"

"Not yet, I'm not. Now move over."

Horace shifted to Gilan's other side while Halt crouched over his former pupil, who was growing ever more pallid and sweaty.

"They got away," Gilan gasped, wincing as his elder inspected the wound. "They got Will, and they got away..."

"Stay still."

"We have to do something—"

"There's nothing we _can_ do," Halt barked, pinning Gilan down by his uninjured shoulder.

Horace glanced to the lateen-sailed ship in the cove of the Cliffs of Clamour, which had already scooped up the dingy of three Toscans and was turning about, the sweeps running out to row them out to sea, taking Will, and the man who shot Gilan, away.

"You could shoot them from here," he said. "I know you can."

"And what good would it do?" Halt snapped, glaring at the knight. "Help me with this." Looking back to Gilan, he asked, more tenderly, "Where's Crowley?"

The younger Ranger's jaw was clenched against the pain. "In the woods. With the horses. Safe." He breathed heavily through his teeth. "Damn! Just pull it out!"

"No," said Halt. "You'll bleed to death. We'll break it off, and bandage it properly when we get back to the horses. We'll find a physician in the town."

Gilan was about to form a sarcastic retort when his old mentor suddenly snapped the arrow shaft, and it took all of Horace's strength to keep him from bucking in agony.

"Damn it!" he snarled again, and he continued to curse under his breath.

"How's your head?" the knight asked Halt, who winced as he touched a wound hidden by his peppery hair.

"I'll live," was the curt reply. The Ranger then pulled out a small flask. "Keep him down."

"Oh no," Gilan groaned, clearly in the know as to what was in that flask. "Please, Halt—"

"Don't be such a little girl," the man growled, uncorking it and nodding to Horace. "Ready?"

"For what?"

"This." Halt tipped a little bit of the flask's contents onto the arrow wound, and Gilan seized, managing to hold onto his wordless scream but still trying to lash out uncontrollably.

"_Damn your mother to the crows!"_ he roared. Halt cocked an eyebrow.

"Mother damnation. Never thought I'd hear those from you, Gilan."

"_Curse you for breathing, you yellow-bellied—!"_

Halt stuffed his glove into Gilan's mouth, glancing sheepishly at Horace as his former apprentice continued to cuss unashamedly into his gag. The knight was pretty sure that Halt's mother was included in several of those cusses...

"Should have done that first," the Ranger grunted. "It's amazing what sort of language one can pick up when travelling the country."

"What the hell is that?" Horace asked, bewildered, nodding at the flask.

"Something I bought in Highcliff before we left. A powerful disinfectant. Perhaps too powerful..."

"_Mmfh emph ema mpher phem yemf mem!_" Gilan continued to rage.

"Did you get the man who attacked me?" asked Halt of Horace, trying to ignore the squirming man. The knight shook his head.

"He was in that dingy with Giovanni and another Toscan."

Halt, curiously enough, nodded in satisfaction. "Good. I'll get to deal with him."

Eventually, Gilan calmed down, the angry creases of his face diminishing and the foul curses dwindling to nothing. Halt cautiously pulled out the makeshift gag.

"Better?" he asked, and the Ranger nodded tartly. Halt raised a withering eyebrow. "What was that about my mother?"

Gilan blushed.


	17. The Journey Continues

**Mother Carey's chickens...To Death and Glory has exceeded the highest number of reviews I've ever gotten for a story! *Jiggles with happiness* Thank you so much! *Gives teddybear hugs* :)**

**And to you who reviewed the last chapter as Guest, you get an extra hug.**

* * *

~17~ The Journey Continues

Crowley was concealed in a tree when the three wearied and depleted companions trudged to where Gilan had left him in hiding. Not having the energy to play with him, the young Ranger called him down.

"Come out, Crowley. We give up."

There were a few giggles, a rustled twig, then nothing.

Gilan sighed, then gave a low whistle, summoning Blaze.

"I'm getting too old for this," he grunted as he leaned against a tree. Halt glared at him, but said nothing as he, too, called for his horse.

A few minutes later, Blaze emerged into the small glade, followed later by Abelard and Kicker, the latter coming simply because he didn't want to be left alone.

"So what happens now?" asked Horace, having removed his mail hauberk and was trying to bandage the wound on his arm with increasing difficulty.

Halt patted Abelard on the neck. "What else? You and I will find a ship and sail to Toscana."

"Just the two of you? How romantic." Gilan fluttered his eyes, and Halt had half a mind to smack him across the rump with his bow.

"We'll ride to Port Stonewall," he continued, every word brittle, "and hire a ship. Have we any luck, we'll find a crew of Skandians. Those remodelled ships of theirs would get us to Toscana quickly."

"Halt," Gilan said. All humour had evaporated. "It was risky leaving Redmont to search for Will in the first place. King Duncan would have a cow when he learns that you've left Araluen completely."

"Then let him have his cow!" Halt retorted brusquely. "He tried to stop me once, and failed. Don't you step into his shoes."

Gilan shrugged on shoulder, holding out one arm. "I'm not trying to deter you. Besides, I'm injured. There's nothing I can do to stop you."

"Exactly. I take all the blame, here."

"But what about Pauline?" he asked. He glanced at Horace. "And Evanlyn? What would they think?"

Horace looked away, worms of guilt beginning to burrow in his guts. Halt simply glared at his former pupil.

"Whose side are you on, Gilan?"

The Ranger said nothing more to that.

* * *

They built a fire for the first time in days that night and began preparing a warm meal. They didn't actively search for young Crowley, but every once in a while, they heard his barely-suppressed giggles...

Halt winced as he wrapped himself in his cloak, too warm to move closer to the fire but too cold to remain uncovered. His head pounded, a miniature drummer having at it inside his skull. The fire tore at his eyes and every joint ached.

"If anyone's getting too old for anything..." he muttered to himself.

Horace brought him some coffee laced with honey, which he accepted gratefully.

"He's worried for you, you know," said the knight softly. "Gilan. More for you than for himself."

Halt looked across the fire to the younger Ranger, who was stirring the stew pot with his uninjured arm, an absent look on his face.

"Then he is a fool to do so," he grunted, favouring the cup of coffee. "He's the one with the bloody arrow in his shoulder. And if you haven't noticed, the shoulder is very important to a Ranger."

Horace swallowed his annoyance to the mockery, and lowered his voice further. "Do you think it will heal?"

"With proper care, yes. But only—"

"If he doesn't exert himself, I know." The knight sighed. "I feel like it's my fault."

"And why would it be? Horace, you're talking nonsense."

"I can't bear to think that he may never be able to—"

"I can _hear_ you, you know," Gilan growled flatly, voice barely raised. Horace, blushing slightly, moved back to his seat near the fire. There was a rustling in the trees, a small giggle, then silence.

"It's getting dark, Crowley," said Halt loudly but not looking around. "Come on out."

Nothing but the wind in the leaves.

"Guess I'm still stuck as the babysitter and horse herder," Gilan grumbled, studying the flames as though they hid great secrets. Horace looked away, yet Halt stared straight at him.

"You aren't doing anything with that arm—"

"And even if I wasn't hurt, I'd _still_ be the babysitter!"

"We're really not going to got through with this _again_, are we?" asked Halt, lifting an eyebrow. Gilan crumpled, yanking his cloak closer around himself.

"No," he mumbled sullenly.

For several moments, there was only the cackling of the fire, the rustling of the wind in the trees and the lone hoot of a distant owl.

Gilan sighed. "I'm sorry."

The others glanced curiously at him.

"For the way I've been acting these past few days. It was childish and petty. I—"

"Gilan," said Halt, taking on the tone he used to use on him when he was a boy, "had you not once argued against what has and what will transpire, you wouldn't be the man I thought you were. In addition, had you not been with Horace and I, we both would have died in the cove."

Gilan once more stared into the core of the flames, studying the pulsing embers at its base. The sounds of the night whispered on, broken when a solitary elk keened to the moon.

Finally, Horace cleared his throat.

"That was amazing sword work back there," he said, genuine admiration coating his words. Gilan grunted and flicked his head in response. "Really, had you been half as good as you were, I still think you would have been able to take them all yourself."

Halt snorted, concurring. "Even if he had that arrow in his shoulder at the start."

Horace recalled that Gilan was capable of using his left arm for fighting just as well as his right, and agreed whole-heartily that the young Ranger could have sent the Toscans fleeing with their tails between their legs.

"We still failed," Gilan said gruffly, a growl smothered in his throat. "They got away, and they have Will."

"But we know where they're going, we know he's alive, and we know what they're going to do with him," Halt countered, trying to remain optimistic.

"We suspect, you mean."

"No, we do know," said Horace. "Something a Toscan, Giovanni, said to me was, 'I should have enjoyed watching you fight in the Arena as a Champion.'" He held open his hands. "That's evidence enough for me."

Gilan shrugged. "I suppose Romena is our—I mean _your_—best bet." He frowned. "That's a long way..." He glanced sideways at his old mentor, a familiar twinkle in his eye. "A long way by _boat_."

He could have sworn that Halt looked just a little bit green at that, but it could have been a trick of the light.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

_Two days later..._

Will managed to keep himself impassive as Septimus looked over him, the hard, disciplined Ranger training forcing the stolidness even though he was naked but for a short pair of trousers, allowing the Toscan lord to investigate his whole body. They were alone except for Julius, who stood in the shadows, on a lower deck of the _Sterna_ _Argento_, but the shame and rage roiled like a nest of restless serpents in his gut.

Septimus nodded his approval. He spoke in Araluan for his prisoner's benefit, his accent thick and his voice as smooth as cream.

"He is lean, but strong," he said, running a finger along the taunt muscles on Will's back. The Ranger just managed not to flinch. "Powerful hands and arms, from years of pulling the strings of longbows. Defined legs from horseback riding and fitness. No signs of abdominal swelling..." He glanced Will over one more time. "And a face to make any woman swoon." Septimus grinned, revealing bright teeth, but the Ranger made no reaction to the teasing praise.

Julius nodded. "I knew he would be a fine contestant as soon as I lay my eyes on him, _signore_. It is just as well that Berkart Falk was telling the truth."

A ripple of anger rattled down Will's spine at the name. Berkart Falk, the man Will had exposed as the cruel, brutish man he was to the baron of Highcliff. Coming across the hunting Toscans, exiled Falk had relayed everything he knew about Ranger Will Treaty, leading them right to his doorstep, literally.

Septimus didn't seem to notice Will's heightened aggravation, so busy he was in inspecting the multiple wounds he had sustained all over his body. Not only were they external, but Will's neck was shot through with pain whenever he turned his head. Even after two days of rest, the agony lashed out across his shoulders like lightning if he even so much as lifted up something of weight. In addition to the swells of nausea and fever that stalked him like a puma, his increasing discomfort made the voyage to Toscana inescapably tormenting.

"But he is damaged, Julius," Septimus toned gravely. "How has he come to be so?"

The physician shuffled uncomfortably. "In addition to the Wargal wound on his leg—which has vastly improved, I must emphasize—there had to be...certain measures taken in order to obtain the Ranger. Had he been alone, perhaps he would have been easier to overcome."

Will knew there were still bruises and cuts from the night that he'd been abducted. They had been covered with a white powder when he was in the coffin during the funeral ruse, but he had been given a bath before Septimus came to inspect him, and now every wound was stark and vivid against his flesh. Many of the lighter bruises had faded from purple to yellow; still, it made him look no more healthier than a few days earlier. In addition, there were several abrasions from when his horse was shot with an arrow and he was sent tumbling from the saddle, onto the road—not to mention the unseen injury in his neck. His leg, admittedly, was indeed better than it was days before, thanks to Julius' skill as a physician, but there was to be a fresh poultice prepared everyday for him, to make sure the fever didn't return.

"And who was with him?" asked Septimus gently, his patience drawn. He never liked Julius da Romena, but tolerated the man because he got things done, and, usually, done efficiently. Just as well that his father was a man of high standing in the court of Opus.

"A boy, the son of another Ranger. My men thought—"

"Don't blame your men for neglecting to eliminate the boy!" Septimus snapped.

Julius straightened his shoulders. "What good would that have done? It would have only served in angering Ranger Halt further, goading to follow us all the more. Besides, the boy didn't know what we were doing or who we were. Other signs must have given us away."

Septimus' emerald eyes remained narrow as he regarded the younger man. "Be that as it may, half of your men are dead on foreign soil, and several of my mercenary sailors are as well. This man—" He gave Will's shoulder a violent shake, making him grimace as his neck twinged painfully. "—Had better be worth it."

Julius glared right back, but with insurance, not insolence. "He will, my lord, you can count on that."

Will's anger was making it a trying task to keep his deadpan expression. They were speaking as though he wasn't there, or else a dumb animal.

A cool breeze snaked into the dark space, sputtering the candles and summoning gooseflesh all across Will's body. He managed not to shiver, but he did get tighter, and Septimus noticed the slight movement.

"But our guest is cold!" he exclaimed, eyes wide in mock astonishment. "How careless of us. Julius, fetch back his clothes."

Smothering a grumble, Julius turned to pick up the loose cotton shirt and dark trousers that had become Treaty's garb since alighting the Silver Tern. Will accepted them, pulling them on gradually, and saying nothing of gratitude. The physician couldn't blame him, of course. He was still a prisoner, a prisoner in a cage he could not escape without drowning.

"Shall we make for above decks?" Septimus asked politely, an arm spread to indicate the ladder.

Will said nothing, but turned and limped stiffly towards the ship steps, using the rail to help him up.

The wind was chilled, the sky grey and overcast, but Will exposed none of his discomfort and instead waited for Septimus and Julius to emerge from below. As he did so, he turned stiffly to view the rest of the vessel and her inhabitants. Most of the Toscans were going about the usual routines of maintaining a steady speed, scrubbing the decks, checking for damage, and as for the man at the crow's nest, keeping a weather eye for any pursuing ships. None of them paid Will any heed at all.

"Ah, nothing like clean sea air to clear the lungs," Septimus said, putting his face to the wind and breathing deeply. His dark cape flapped behind him as he moved to lean on the port bulwarks, and with a wave of his hand, he summoned Will beside him. The Ranger obeyed reluctantly, coming to stand beside him. He wavered slightly as the ship suddenly lurched, breaking through a wave and sending sea water spraying into the air in a fine salty mist.

Septimus chuckled. "Don't worry, _amico_. You will get your...how do you say? _Sea legs_, soon enough."

Will had been to sea before, the first time being one of the worst experiences and the last being one of the best. It was, after all, the place where he nearly drowned in a storm, but also where he, albeit awkwardly, proposed to Alyss.

"I must admit, I was greener than a frog when I first set sail on the _Sterna_," the Toscan lord continued. "Couldn't pull myself from the bulwarks. Walked as though on a land continuously bombarded with earthquakes. I was quite the mess, oh yes." He chuckled. "Now I feel as though I was born on the sea."

Will said nothing, offering no little stories of his own. The Toscan misinterpreted his sullen silence.

"Don't talk much, do you?" he asked, an eyebrow raised. Perhaps it was supposed to be a charming expression, for he also gave a small smile, boasting pearly teeth. "Do I hazard a guess that the sea sickness has claimed you?"

Will's stony expression and stolid mouth revealed his stubbornness, and for a moment, there was a slight flicker of unease in Septimus' eyes. It was there and gone so quickly, the Ranger figured that he had imagined it.

"Well then," he said, patting his palms against the rail, "if you ever begin to feel sick, speak to Emilio. He'll fix you up with some ginger tea, or perhaps, if you're fortunate, some sugared ginger." He then thumped Will on the shoulder and turned to move away. Shocked, the Ranger stared after him.

"Are you not locking me up?" he asked, making it seem a perfunctory question.

Septimus paused, then half turned and gave him another of his smiles.

"And have you waste away in some rat-infested brig? My dear friend, where do you think you could go? The shore is miles away. I know we can trust you not to attack anyone. No, while aboard the _Sterna Argento_, and while I remain her patron, you shall be free to explore her rigging and her hull." The smile never faded as he added, "But if you do ever try to escape, you will break our trust and you _will_ be locked up. You will be forced to do exercises to keep in shape, given enough food to be comfortable, but you will be under constant guard and spend much of your time viewing this beautiful vessel's lowest bowels from between unforgiving bars."

Will said nothing more as Septimus strode away, head back and spine straight as though he owned the ship. Considering his fanciful garb, he probably did.

Will turned back to the sea, viewing the distant coast with a feeling of forlornness. To the north, Araluen had already sunk beneath the horizon, while to the east and south, Gallica was growing ever longer. Home was getting further and further away, and his chances of escape growing smaller and smaller.

He sighed, now lowering his gaze until he was staring at the grey, restless waves rippling down from the bow in a great V. He reflected how much those drab waves resembled his emotions, and felt his hands tighten on the bulwark.

Another great wave shattered against the fore of the Silver Tern, the hissing spray reaching all the way down to the very tired, and very lonely, Ranger. The ship sighed, as though in sympathy to her prisoner, as she slipped down the rest of the swell.

Will reached up and brushed at the spray on his face, not even feeling the cold.

"I hope they are treating you all right."

Will turned his body slowly, cautious of his neck, to see Niccolò, Julius' half brother, standing just a few paces away.

"This is only the third day," the Ranger replied tartly, facing the sea again. "I don't exactly expect to see improvement, but neither do I see torment coming my way."

Niccolò shook his head. "No, of course not. We would all be crucified by the Aetius himself if we returned home with a broken man."

Will frowned, finally revealing some emotion. "Who is the Aetius?"

"Our master," came the slightly hesitant reply. "Aetius Opus. It isn't his real name so much as his title. He took it once the head of the Opus family, the previous Aetius, died. No one is to ever say his birth name. It is forbidden."

"Why?"

Niccolò shrugged. "It is a Toscan tradition. All important families do it."

"So how does one tell them all apart?"

"Numerals, mostly. The current Aetius is Aetius the Fifteenth, I believe."

Will nodded slowly. "And what does it mean?"

"Mean?"

"Yes. You keep saying _the_ Aetius. Is there a translation?"

The Toscan frowned as he thought, trying to remember. "I believe it is eagle. It must be, for there is an eagle in their crest." He pulled something from his waistband. "See?"

Will studied the dagger in Niccolò's hand, focusing on the small bronze plaque set at the crossbar. He recognized it as the very same insignia Julius had shown him days before, on the seal of a letter. It was an eagle with up-swept wings, holding two crossed swords and surrounded by a laurel wreath.

"It's also the symbol of—"

"The Munerian Games," Will interrupted, nodding in recollection, but regretting it a moment later as his neck screamed at him. "Where I am to fight," he added stiffly.

Niccolò looked uncomfortable as he, too, nodded, sliding the dagger back into his belt. "Precisely."

There was a stretch of silence as long as the western horizon, and Will was punished for holding still for too long – as he tried to look south, his neck shrieked in pain again, and he winced, a hand moving up to massage it.

Niccolò frowned, concerned. "Your neck still bothers you?" It didn't really sound like a question, but Will confirmed anyway.

"When I was thrown from the horse..." he grunted, mouth askew at the pain. Then he winced about something else, glancing with just his eyes over at the younger man. "I'm sorry that I hit you."

The Toscan shrugged. "You sought freedom. I was in your way." He felt the raised bump on his cheek, just beneath his eye, which was darkening with a bruise.

Will frowned. "I...I didn't do that." When he was taking Niccolò's horse in an attempt to escape, he had jabbed him in the side and the neck, then forced him from the saddle. The bruising on his face looked to be the results of an angry fist.

Niccolò glanced away. "It is nothing," he said hastily.

The Ranger's forehead remained creased with concern, and growing fury. "Did Julius do that to you?"

"I said, it is _nothing_," Niccolò growled, sounding more hostile than Will had ever heard him. "Mind your business, Araluan." With that, he pushed away from the bulwark and strode up to the fo'c'sle, to stand alone at the rail.

Despite the vehemence spat at him, Will looked at the gangly youth in pity.

_Just acceptance, _he thought despondently._ It's all he wants..._

* * *

**Hmm, what's up with that, I wonder...**


	18. Port Stonewall

******woeinfklsdjfalksdjflkasdjf IT HAS NOT BEEN TWO F****** WEEKS ALREADY! DX**

**...**

**What excuses have I? *cowers* Well, loads actually, but I won't bore you with them. And I'm going to the coast to check out a university right quick, so I'll be unable to talk for a couple days. Enjoy c:**

* * *

~18~ Port Stonewall

Port Stonewall was small but bustling, like a hive with too many buzzing bees. So many people, all trying to accomplish the same menial or otherwise tedious tasks of everyday life. Tanners stretching skins to dry in the sun, butchers chopping the day's catch with bloodied cleavers, the blacksmiths contributing to the ruckus with the tampering of their newest blades. Creaky waggons bearing barrels large enough to fit a Ranger horse inside clattered noisily down the rough-cobbled streets, the rider bellowing to all those in his path to make way. Children ran wildly between the taller forms of their elders, occasionally fleeing an area in a mad fit of giggles, something shiny clasped in greedy fingers. Huddles of fanning women shuffled about, heads together, like rabbles of gossiping geese. Vendors up every avenue and down every street called out their wares, fine jewelry for the pretty lady, a rug to blanket the room of a king, food so fresh it was like it was picked that very morning from the gardens of the gods.

It was good cover, at least, all the chaos of Port Stonewall. Hardly anyone paid the two Rangers and Araluan knight any heed, having too much on their minds and agendas to worry about strangers and their curious horses.

Halt more or less let Abelard pick his own way through the streets drowning with Stonewallers, much like he would when descending a rocky slope. Young Crowley's head whipped around so quickly, it was a wonder he saw anything at all.

"Papa! Dere's goots, Papa!"

"Goots?" Halt frowned, confused.

"I think he means _goats_, Halt," called Gilan, riding behind him. Though he couldn't see his former apprentice, Halt could hear the smile in his words.

The young boy was now pointing at something lumbering around on a lead behind a short, stout man.

"And dere's a moo! A great big moo!"

Halt looked, brow furrowed. "That's a cow, Crowley, not a moo."

The boy's attention seemed to be as docile as a cricket that morning, for he immediately forgot about the "moo" when he saw the forest of masts that appeared as they rounded a corner. They were approaching the docks.

"Lookit all the sticks!"

"Halt!" Horace called over the port's din. "There's a healer's hut over here."

The old Ranger glanced over his shoulder, then followed Horace's pointing finger. Indeed, there was an aged, double-storied building, a sign hanging from a sagging eave with leaves painted onto it, as well as a thread and curved needle.

Gilan looked sour.

"If he so much as lights an incense..." he grumbled sullenly.

Fortunately for him, the healer was not a witchdoctor or any other phoney. He didn't even ask a whole lot of questions, other than how Gilan was feeling.

"You kept it clean, that's good," the healer said, inspecting the stub of arrow in the Ranger's shoulder. "Not many are smart enough to do even that."

"Yes," Gilan grunted through gritted teeth. He was casting his former mentor a look. "We—I mean, _I—_went through _great pains_ to keep it clean."

Halt refrained from grinning, conscious of the bottle of strong and torturous disinfectant in his pocket.

Gilan was given poppy for the pain as the healer got to work, using a pair of pliers to pull the arrowhead out. The Ranger hissed despite the reliever, but otherwise held his silence.

"You were fortunate," the apothecary said as he began to sew the hole shut. "It could have been a whole lot worse."

"He'll make a full recovery, then," said Halt, trying to sound calm. But that arrow was no sliver. If it had ruined the muscle beyond proper healing...

"Prevent any form of exertion to it, and I don't see why he shouldn't," the healer replied. He was now applying a poultice to the wound. "And you'll have to see me regularly for a clean dressing, every day."

"How long will it take to heal?" asked Gilan, trying not to appear bitter. He didn't like the thought of being anchored to Port Stonewall like one of the many ships in the docks, after all.

"No less than a month, young man." The healer began to bind the Ranger's shoulder with bandages sanitized in boiling water. At least he was educated enough to know about that.

* * *

"Toscana? No, I go no further than Iberion."

"My ship's not shape enough to brave the Constant Sea! She was recently attacked by pirates..."

"You have cattle to transport? _What?_ No cattle? Then no deal!"

Horace gave up with a sigh and sat on a barrel of pickles, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. It felt like a brick oven inside his armour.

"None of these blokes are willing to sail as far as Toscana, let alone Romena," he grumbled.

Romena, Toscana's capital, was about half way down the peninsula. To reach it quickly, a ship would have to sail south, around Iberion and then either follow the shore to the port closest to the city or else cut across a portion of the Constant Sea. On land, a traveller would have to cross all of Gallica and half the length of Toscana. And the roads of the former hadn't been safe of late...

"You're asking the wrong skippers," said Halt, discreetly casting his gaze about the hustle and bustle of Stonewall's docks. He resisted the urge to scrunch his nose at the smell of refuse, fish offal and polluted mud, not to mention the stench of unwashed sailors and livestock. "Most of these are traders and merchants. Concern themselves with themselves, and their healthy profits. Besides, you'll never get anywhere fast with these lugs." He stared up at the wide, glutenous barge that was swallowing up fifty head of cattle. He wondered who would be the one responsible for cleaning up all of the—

"You need something swift, yet could travel the sea lanes incognito," said Gilan, his right arm bound in a cast. "Like what the Toscans had."

"A mail ship?" suggested Horace, and he beamed when Halt nodded his head thoughtfully.

"That could work. If it was heading for Toscana." The knight's face fell. "We can't assume anyone would take us that far, especially if it would mean going leagues out of their own way to do so."

Crowley, who knew little of what was going on, was amusing himself by clambering up the barrels and crates Horace was sitting near. Halt kept a keen eye on him, barking at him to come down if he climbed too far.

"Who says anything about going all the way to Toscana in one trip?" said Gilan, shrugging his uninjured shoulder. "You could make a few stops, perhaps one in Iberion, and make your way from there."

"I spoke to a captain who went no further than Iberion," Horace announced. "Sleazy looking man, but he may be persuaded to accommodate two passengers."

"Yes, at the price of our souls," Halt grumbled. "Besides, I don't like the state of his ship. Looks ready to keel over and die already."

"Gangway!"

The two Rangers and knight, along with several sailors, parted before the two huge, hulking men carrying long blocks of timber on their shoulders. As they passed, Halt nodded musingly again.

"That's what we need. Skandians. There must be a ship for hire around here somewhere."

Over the past few years, the once plundering, pillaging northerners had revolutionized their ways beneath the rule of the current Oberjarl, Erak. Instead of invading the coastlines of Araluen, Gallica, and other countries, they protected them, a naval patrol of sorts. They could be hired to protect ships or sea lanes against pirates, corsairs and other shady seafarers, using their transformed and much improved wolfships.

If one such crew was moored in Stonewall, Halt and Horace would reach Toscana in no time.

Horace looked doubtful, however. "We've been all over these docks by now, surely. I haven't seen hide nor hair of them, and if you ask me, they sort of stick out in a crowd..."

"Th'n you must be as blind as a weevil, ya young tramp."

Horace whirled around and got an eyeful of a great, muscular chest. He took a step back, gazing up, to view a massive Skandian that towered over every man on the docks, and probably the entire port. He was leering down at the smaller men with crooked teeth, lips curled grotesquely, and it took Horace several moments to realize that he was actually _smiling_.

"Yer lookin' for a Skandian crew, th'n, eh?" the giant boomed. Halt was nearly bowled over by the smell of tripe and pickled sardines on his breath. The Ranger looked near a child compared to the Skandian. "I think I c'n help you with that."

"That would be...lovely," said Halt, trying to breathe through his mouth.

The giant, who introduced himself as Kirril Kragnot, parted the hubbub of the docks like a galley cuts the waves. All scrambled out of his way, else they vanish beneath his great feet, allowing the four tailing companions easy passage to the south end of the docks.

"There she is," Kragnot announced proudly. "_Wolfwing_. Fastest wolfship to ever brave the seas."

The sleek vessel, rigged with the new triangular-sail design the Skandians had adopted, bobbed contently at its berth. The muscular sea wolves were hastening up and down the jetty, carrying goods and orders, busy as ants. The _Wolfwing_ certainly looked pristine, the hull recently painted and the decks scoured clean, fresh sails installed and oars sanded smooth.

"Is she not beautiful?" the kirril asked, chest swelled. "She was careened last week, and cleared of all pests. Cleanest and primest ship on the seas."

"She is most impressive," said Halt thoughtfully, nodding. "Who is the skirl?"

Kragnot pointed, nearly knocking Gilan on the head as he lifted a great, eager arm. "At the helm, there, ya see? Skirl Handor. Bravest man to ever sail the seas."

Horace frowned. It would seem that _everything_ about the _Wolfwing_ and her crew was the best on the seas.

"_Skirl Handor!_" Kragnot bellowed, making the knight and Rangers cringe. "These fine landlubbers wish to speak with you!"

The declaration very well turned every head within a hundred metre radius. Halt scowled. So much for secrecy.

The skirl of the _Wolfwing_, small for a Skandian, approached the bulwarks, glancing down at the four ragged companions. Two were Rangers, that much was clear, and the third was some kind of warrior. An Araluan knight if the mantle on his chest was anything to go by. The fourth visitor was tiny, a monkey, perhaps, judging by how limber he was on the stack of barrels standing near the jetty.

"Gorlog's beard!" Handor exclaimed, his own pale, braided yellow whiskers blustering in the wind. "Rangers! Never thought I be seeing one so close...or at all!" Like many of his kin, he was awed almost as much as he was wary of the uncanny abilities of Araluan Rangers. The ghosts of the woods, able to turn themselves invisible with a whirl of their cloaks.

"Yes, we do like to remain..._inconspicuous_," the shorter of the two Rangers, the old one, exclaimed meaningfully. Handor took the hint.

"Of course, of course. Do come aboard, my friends. And try to be visible to us. We wouldn't want you to be crushed because we couldn't be seeing you!" He slapped his great belly in mirth of his own joke, but no one else laughed, so he figured that no one had heard him. "I said, try to be visible—"

"Yes, yes, we know!" the short Ranger said dryly, clambering up the gangplank and onto the _Wolfwing_'s main deck.

"What be your names, friends?" the skirl asked jovially.

"I am Ranger Halt. This is Ranger Gilan, and Sir Horace, knight of Araluen." Halt indicated to each companion in turn.

"And the monkey?" Kragnot nodded his head at Crowley, whose hand was being held by his father, but he looked itching to pull free and start climbing the rigging.

Halt frowned. "Monkey? Oh, this is my son."

Kragnot squinted his eyes as though to see something far away; though, due to his height, little Crowley indeed must have looked far away. "Ah, I see now."

"Wait. Halt?" Handor fingered his beard. "Did you say you be Halt?"

The old Ranger cocked his head slightly, probably because of the skirl's curious way of speaking. "Yes, I said I be— I am Halt."

"_The_ Halt? Mentor of Ranger Will Treaty?"

The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well, it's not a very common name, you know."

But Handor did not look convinced. "I thought Ranger Halt was taller."

Halt's hood was covering his face, protecting those at the sidelines from the heat emitting from his eyes. The Skandian before him, after all, wasn't even half a head taller than the Ranger. "Of course you did."

Handor's rather boisterous beard must have shielded him from the flames as well, for he merely wrapped a beefy arm around Halt's narrow shoulders, nearly breaking his bow and his back, in the process.

"Ha ha! I do be liking you, Ranger Halt. And any friend of Will Treaty be a friend to all Skandians! Come, you must drink with me! Brother, let us break open the Toscan wine!"

"Brother?" asked Horace, blinking. The only other Skandian sharing the exchange was Kragnot, the tower of a man. The knight was deciding whether or not it had anything to do with blood when Handor patted his kirril on the elbow.

"Aye, this do be my brother, and my second-in-command," he said proudly. Then he frowned curiously. "Do it not be obvious that we are blood kin?"

Horace looked from the man barely taller than Halt, to the giant that could rest his arm on a horse's back like a tavern bar. He tried not to grimace.

"Oh, yes, you have...the same eyebrows," he finally uttered hesitantly with a nod. He cast a withering look at Gilan's cheeky, unsympathetic grin, which was barely concealed behind his hand.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

Will felt the ship shudder, fighting against a nightly headwind, jolting him from sleep again. He grumbled inwardly.

_Blast this infernal boat_, he thought in disgruntlement, wincing as yet another jar sent a ripple of pain up his neck and across his shoulders. _At least it isn't a hammock._

He'd tried to sleep in the swinging cradles the night prior, to the dismay of his neck, so now he had a low cot that was slightly softer than the ground. At least it was easy to grow accustomed to, and didn't threaten to throw him when he so much as shuffled his shoulders.

In addition, as a special "guest," Will had his own small section of the ship, little more than a broom cupboard but his own nonetheless. It once belonged to an officer, but he had been killed at the Cliffs of Clamour three days ago, so now it was Will's. Infinitely better than what he'd expected, as a prisoner.

He sighed and tried to get into a more comfortable position, but knew that it was no use. It was not because of his predicament. It was not because of his sore neck and throbbing leg. It was because he felt a vague sense of concern for Niccolò and his faceless assailant.

_Why do I worry for him? He's just one of_ them, he grunted to himself, scowling into the darkness.

A sudden, loud _thud_ startled him, and he froze instinctively, feigning slumber. Then he relaxed, albeit sheepishly. It was only the night crewmen, continuing to sail south even as their brethren slept, maximizing the distance covered in short time. Indeed, he now heard footsteps overhead, marching along the deck. Probably the _timoniere_, or helmsman.

_Who hit him, I wonder—? Doesn't matter!_ Will snapped at himself, forcing Niccolò and his bruised eye from his head. _I need some air._

Gradually, tentatively, the Ranger dragged his legs from the bed, wincing as his Wargal wound tugged in dissent. Pushing aside the veil of cloth placed to give privacy, he padded down the gangway, heading for the stairs.

_Ladder_, he reminded himself. _They're called ladders on a ship_.

The silvery moonlight was soothing for his eyes as he emerged above decks of the _Sterna Argento_, and the night sea air was refreshing for his slightly fevered brow. His leg ached, but his neck ached more, and it felt laborious to make his way to the starboard bulwarks, overlooking the endless western sea.

Admittedly, it was beautiful. The moon glistening over the undulating waves, outshining the thousands upon thousands of stars twinkling overhead. All was defined with a sharp clarity – every rope, every pulley and guy, every shroud and plank and cable was crystallized in silver moonshine. The sails, triangular and fashioned to face any wind, were like the pale clouds drifting over the mainland. They breathed softly in contentment as they tacked across the breeze, continually sailing south, ever closer to their destination.

Had the situation been any different, Will might have admired the tranquil atmosphere. As it was, he could only feel his stomach becoming a block of rueful ice. So much had happened in so short a time – being a hairsbreadth away from freedom, seeing who might have been Halt back up the road, being sent across the cove to the ship only to learn that it was indeed Halt hard on their heels, learning that Niccolò had an abuser—

The hand that grasped the back of his neck was cruel and unyielding. Large fingers squeezed mercilessly as Will balked, wanting to turn around but finding himself unable to do so. The attacker pushed him against the rail with his own body, pinning him in place with superior weight. Shocked, Will was on the verge of calling for help out of panic and pain when a blade flashed in the moonlight, the sharp edge pressing against his mouth like a gag. If the wielder moved his arm in either direction, Will's smile would be just that much wider.

"Squeal, and I'll cut out your tongue," the assailant hissed. "You don't need to speak to fight in the games."

He had lowered his voice, making it impossible for Will to identify him. He felt as helpless as a mewling kitten with the hand grasping his neck.

"Niccolò spoke to you this afternoon. What did he tell you?"

The blade was withdrawn, but Will was still crushed against the wooden bulwarks. He just managed not to whimper as the faceless Toscan shook the answer from him by the neck.

"Nothing important," he gasped, keeping his voice down. "Nothing about anybody. He—"

Will was silenced by another torturous shake.

"If I find out you are lying, you will wish you were in his place," the assailant growled. "Aetius Opus and his games be damned. I'm watching you."

The rail pushed painfully into his middle as Will was crushed further against it, and he grunted in protest, unable to lean forward to relieve the pressure. Then, it was to his repulsed horror when the unnamed Toscan brought his face in close to the back of Will's head, and _smelled_ him.

The assailant purred. "Hm, you are a pretty thing, you."

Will's face bleached from pallid to an ashy grey as the other man finally withdrew, giving his neck one last squeeze before releasing him at last. The Ranger dared not risk turning, and instead continued to stare out to the remorseless sea. Only when he was sure that the Toscan was gone did he turn to view the rest of the ship. He saw sailors going about their usual duties, yet something was common between them all – every one of them was pointedly facing the other way.


	19. Wine and Biscotti

**A quick note to Ranger Robbin, when I put "every guy," I meant as in rope, not the slang form of man ;) Sorry for the confusion. And to Sparky, I totally forgot about Alyss! I will have to add her in somewhere.**

**I'm updating earlier than planned because I need your opinion on something, okay? Details at the bottom :D**

* * *

~19~ Wine and Biscotti

Crowley sat on a chair much too tall for him, favouring a cup of apple juice, legs swinging with barely suppressed energy. Halt made sure to keep an eye on him, else he slip away to start playing in the _Wolfwing_'s rigging...again.

"Where do you be heading?" asked Skirl Handor, lifting his mug of imported Toscan wine. Even ragged seafarers like himself enjoyed the occasional delicate drink.

"We be heading— Er, we mean to sail to Toscana," said Halt, politely ignoring the wine before him. He needed a clear head. Handor frowned.

"Toscana be right far away, Ranger Halt. Why do you need to be going there?"

The Ranger hesitated. He wasn't sure how much information would be safe to throw around. It wasn't so much that he didn't trust the skirl—though it would be unwise to simply let fly everything—just that it would be better if the ears had little to tease the tongue into waggling with.

"I'm afraid that it is Ranger's business, confidential," Halt said grimly, but with an air that suggested no insult. Handor did not lie down, however.

"To be sure, to be sure. But I be not stupid. Had you with you a larger party, a delegation, better dressed and announced with silver trumpets, I would believe this to be a mission for the king. A treaty to sign, perhaps, or some other agreement. However, I do see a group of four, with only two continuing to Toscana. Small group do not be seen by all. There be something afoot here." The short Skandian lifted a bushy eyebrow, also not displaying hostility but simple insistence that he know why he was to carry two men so far.

Halt wasn't foolish enough to take Handor as a blundering sod. He was a skirl after all, and sods did not become skirls lightly. That was why he didn't simply insist that they were going to visit a friend or to collect a fortune from a newly deceased family member of distant relation that they had never heard of until recently.

"It is true we are not on a mission for the king. Not directly, at least," he said finally, reaching to gently grasp Crowley's outstretched arm, which was trying to snag Halt's cup of wine.

"He doesn't know we're doing it," said Horace bluntly, restless at the slow conversation. "At least, not yet."

The skirl's chair creaked as he leaned forward over the small table, sitting in the middle of the ship's cabin. "Do it be something to do with the Toscans who have been loitering around these shores?"

Halt just managed to not blink, to keep his face stolid, as did Gilan. Horace, however, moved his head a little, which was enough for Handor.

"I do see now why you seek them," the skirl said darkly, but not out of malevolence towards the companions. "They be spies, they be!"

Halt opened his mouth to speak the contrary, but Crowley beat him do it.

"Bandits steal Uncle Will!" he declared, his fury only making his tone all the more adorable. "We hunt bandits, rescue Uncle Will!"

Handor looked astonished down at the boy, eyes wide.

"They stole Will?" He shook his head briskly and looked at Halt. "I mean, they kidnapped Will? You don't be meaning...Will Treaty?"

Halt pursed his lips. The cat was out of the bag. "Yes. The Toscans kidnapped Ranger Will. He was not their specific target...at least, not initially."

Quickly, the astonishment faded, to replaced by a look that was almost knowing, like Handor had suspected such a thing.

"There be rumours," he said, lowering his voice cynically. "Rumours from Skandia of Oslave the Bear going missing, taken, by strangers in swift ships."

Gilan leaned forward curiously. "Oslave the Bear? Who is he?"

"He be a great warrior, very young, but already proven to be a true Skandian. He be known to turn the tide of any battle once his berserk blood boils. Even as a boy, he never lost a fight, they say. Whether or not that be true, I do fear his disappearance be because of his prowess."

Halt frowned concernedly. He, too, had never heard of Oslave, but if he was as great a warrior as Handor says, then more pieces of the obscure puzzle were beginning to take their places.

"When did you learn of this?" asked the Ranger impassively. Handor shook his shaggy head.

"Not two weeks ago, from a fellow skirl on the Narrow Sea."

"Has Erak done nothing?" said Horace.

Handor shrugged. "Men do go missing. It happens. Oberjarl Erak cannot search for every Skandian that do go missing, even if he is Oslave the Bear. They be rumours, after all. Oslave may only be enjoying a little vacation."

Halt greatly doubted that. The disappearance of two renowned figures in two countries haunted by Toscan ships, within the span of a month, can't be a coincidence.

Can it?

He glanced at his companions, Horace's brow furrowed, Gilan's look one of calculation and unrest. Young Crowley was chewing the edge of his cup happily, giggling whenever a wave gently rocked the moored wolfship.

It was Handor who finally led the next step. "When do you be planning on getting underway?"

Horace perked before he could stop himself. "You'll help us?"

"Of course, young pup. Toscans be thinking us pink-bellied thumb-suckers if they be taking one of our own. It be great insult. And all Skandians be indebted to Ranger Will, and to you, Ranger Halt."

Halt looked nonplussed, and it took him a while to realize that he had displayed such a trivial expression readily. "But...we are complete strangers to you. You owe us no debts personally. Surely, you—"

"You be remembering Gundar?" Handor grunted, eyebrow cocked again. "Skirl of _Wolfwill_, after Ranger Will. He be my cousin, on my sire's side. We were best friends as young'uns, and now we be closer than brothers." He lifted his flagon of wine (even if he knew delicate drink, he didn't necessarily know how to drink delicate). "Any debt of his be a debt of mine. The _Wolfwing_ do be at your service."

* * *

It wasn't six hours later that the _Wolfwing_ was ready to get under way. Eager to return to the open waters, the sea wolves finished loading supplies just in time to catch the evening tides. There was even time to say a comfortable farewell to those remaining behind.

"Look after him," said Halt, placing a hand on Gilan's uninjured shoulder. "He will not understand."

The younger Ranger's hand rose to land on Halt's own shoulder respectfully.

"As though he was my own," he replied solemnly, unsmiling. Crowley, oblivious to the exchange, was jiggling beside Gilan like a pudding. He was raring to run off again, as he had attempted numerous times, in order to force his elders to search for him.

The Ranger looked concerned. "What should I tell the commandant?"

Halt's mouth lifted at the corner. "I'm sure you'll think of something. Perhaps something along the lines of a valiant attempt to prevent me from leaving, to insist that Araluen needs me here."

Gilan frowned. "That makes me sound like the villain. I want to save Will just as much as you!"

"Oh, suck it up, princess," Horace jibbed, pounding his companion on the back. "We can't all be the hero."

"Make ready to set sail!" came the loud, guttural cry from the _Wolfwing_. Gilan smiled sadly.

"Your vessel awaits, my lords," he said with mocking civility.

Halt nodded. "We'll tell you all about how we brought down an immoral organization without you."

"Sounds intriguing. Can't wait."

Horace clasped forearms with Gilan, giving it a brotherly shake. The taunting made way to sympathetic solemnity. "I wish you could come."

The Ranger's smile grew warmer. "So do I. I would love to watch Halt's face turn colours spectacularly in sync with the undulating sea. 'Tis quite the sight." The grin became wolfish at his old mentor's fiery glare.

"I hear the spiders are _staggeringly_ larger in Toscana. Perhaps I'll bring one home as a souvenir," Halt retorted with an arched eyebrow, and he just managed not to smirk as Gilan's features grew ashen.

"That's quite all right," he said hastily, releasing Horace's arm. It may have been Halt's imagination, but he could have sworn he saw a shiver rattle Gilan's entire frame.

"All aboard, you slack-hearted swine!" came another cry. "We mean to ride the tide, not follow it like a love-sick laddie!"

Halt realized that the announcements were pointed at them, and he nodded once more at his former apprentice, who bowed his head in return. Then Halt knelt, coming face to face with Crowley.

"Son, you've been brave in the past. I need you to be brave once more. I'm going to be away for a while, and Araluen needs a Ranger to protect her in my stead. Can you do that for me?"

Crowley, full of childish pride and bliss, puffed out his chest like a rooster. "Nevah fe-ah, Papa! Aralan safe under my hand!"

Halt smiled at the boy's pronunciation of Araluen and ruffled his hair.

"I know she is, lad. I know she is."

Then the old Ranger and the Araluan knight were aboard the _Wolfwing_ with the last of the cargo, and they waved as the anchor was hoisted and the ship set sailed. But then Gilan and Crowley were swallowed up by the hubbub of the jetties, and were seen no more.

Gilan waved even when the dock hands swarmed around him to prepare the berth for the next ship, his grinned faltering as the _Wolfwing_ sailed away, dragging his already precarious mood after it. He sighed, dropping his arm.

"They'll be fine," he said, hand reaching to clasp Crowley's. "Your father will bring Uncle Will back. As for us, we're going on a little adventure of our own. How does that sound?" He glance down, to see that his hand was reaching for nothing but air. His brow creased as he looked first one way, then the other.

"Crowley? _Crow_ley?"

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

It went without saying that the voyage south wasn't like Will had imagined. Only days after departing the Cliffs of Clamour, he found that he was relaxing despite himself. He still ached whenever he so much as inhaled a refreshing ocean breath, but with Julius' medical aid, his leg began to recover, now at the point where it itched incessantly beneath the bandages. As for his neck, he was given a wine skin of hot water every night, for it was discovered that it helped ease the pain, allowing him to sleep.

And sleep he did, when he wasn't worried about being attacked.

It wasn't as though he was afraid of being threatened. He could handle himself. It was the natural and common fear of the unknown. Who was it that grabbed him by the neck and held him in place, helpless as a newborn whelp? Who was it that clearly had the intentions of a predator, who had bullied Niccolò to the point of inflicting physical harm?

At first, Will suspected Julius. And he still did, a little. After all, the physician had constantly belittled his half brother on the way to the coast, degrading his intelligence and capabilities whenever he got the chance. But Will didn't think Julius would actually _hit_ him...

What the Ranger was absolutely sure of, however, was that he wasn't going to take the faceless assailant's threat to heart. He wasn't going to close himself off to Niccolò. If anything, Will was going to move closer. He was going to protect him.

Even without the concealing Ranger cowl, he was skilled in watching without anyone realizing they were being watched. Still, he saw no one sneaking inconspicuous looks at him, be it of malevolent or curious intent. He received the occasional acknowledgement – how could he not, being a foreigner and the reason for their voyage so far north – but the majority of the time he spent invisible. And he hated it.

He tried listening to conversations to pass the time, only to turn away upon realization that most of them were in the rapid tongue of Toscan. He watched sailors at work, trying to learn, but the language barrier stood firm when he had any questions or comments. He couldn't even exercise, due to his neck, and his patience as a Ranger was diminished by the end of every day.

_The incessant presence of loneliness...The constant fear of attack...The eternal looming of what lies ahead..._

Will could not shrug off the anxiety, no matter how he tried to distract himself. It was a persistent fly around a horse too old and stiff to shake itself.

"_Biscotti?_"

Will flinched, stiffened at the pain, and slowly turned to glower at the offender. His brow smoothed over when he realized that it was only Niccolò, who was biting his lip in apology.

"Sorry. I thought you'd hear me coming, Ranger."

Will faced the sea, a worm of unease uncoiling in his gut. He couldn't forget the consequence of talking to the young man last time.

_But if you want to help him, you can't push him away._

"No matter what the stories say," he said with a hint of amusement, "we're as human as you are."

Niccolò shifted uneasily, but then lifted the small platter in his hand. "Do you want a _biscotti?_" he asked again, his foreign accent thick but smooth.

Will looked down at the plate of biscuits. They looked to have initially been part of one long loaf, but was cut like slices of bread and dried. He could see berries and nuts dotting the inside. It was probably a traditional Toscan treat, unfamiliar to Will, but upon trying other new things, he found that he enjoyed them. With a light shrug, he accepted a _biscotti_.

"Thank you."

The youth grinned. "We do not have many left. It was a miracle I managed to reach you before they were all taken." On cue, a darting hand lashed out from behind Niccolò and snagged one of the _biscotti_ before dashing away. Will found himself amused, and grinned as well.

"Have to be on your toes if you want to eat anything, I suppose," he said.

Then he stiffened imperceptibly. There it was. The prickling sensation of being watched. Without moving his head, Will glanced around with his eyes, darting. Niccolò frowned upon noticing, but was smart enough to recognize something amiss, and so did not turn his head either.

"What? What's wrong?" he asked, barely moving his jaw.

Will saw no one staring their way, at least from his angle. Casually, he pretended to stretch his shoulders and then leaned back against the bulwarks, gazing across the deck and organized hustle of working sailors. But still, he saw on one paying him or his companion any heed.

Niccolò fiddled with the last few _biscotti_ on the platter as he, too, turned to regard the rest of the crew, appearing as innocent in his combing as Will. He must have some experience in watching without being watched, but not from the same purpose as the Ranger.

"Is someone staring at you?" he asked, just loud enough for him to hear. Will was pleased how well Niccolò played – he spoke as though enquiring a insouciant question, appearing nonchalant from afar.

Will followed suit.

"I don't know. We need to talk." He took a bite of the dried biscuit in his hand. It seemed to be a little stale; it was harder than he had anticipated and he winced in half-bite.

Niccolò abruptly flushed. "Sorry. I guess they are a little bit...older than I thought." His tone turned dark again, though he retained the outlook of quietude. "Why must we speak, Ranger Will?"

"You know why."

The hot flush in Niccolò's face drained faster than Will thought possible, to be replaced with a livid, pallid white.

"I do not know of what you speak.

"I think you do."

Niccolò's teeth bared veraciously, and Will was reminded of a beaten dog snarling at the offer of comfort.

"I do not want your help, Araluan," he spat, not bothering to conceal his anger to any potential audience. "How many times must I tell you?"

"Niccolò—"

"Speak to me again, and you will regret it." With that, he stormed away, the exact same reaction he had expressed when Will noticed his blackened eye.

The Ranger feigned indifference, when really, there was a typhoon in his belly and an icicle piercing his chest.

_Speak to me again, and you will regret it._

That wasn't a threat. It was a warning.

* * *

Niccolò avoided Ranger Will the rest of the day, and acknowledged him only when bringing him a skin of boiled water for his neck, late that evening. The Araluan looked to want to speak with him, but, hardening his heart, Niccolò simply turned from the small officer cabin and stalked away. He tried to portray aloof coldness towards the kidnapped foreigner, but it was like trying to scold a happy child. He couldn't do it. At least, not flawlessly. And he knew it wasn't flawless, because Ranger Will still looked upon him with pity. Pity! So long since anyone took pity on meek, feeble Niccolò.

No, not even his half brother regarded him with such sympathetic warmheartedness. It wasn't _friendship_, exactly, but it wasn't indifference to his existence either. He never really had anyone to call friend, for he never felt the need for one. Will Treaty and his easygoing disposition, despite being the cruel victim of abject kidnapping, made him likeable. It was why Niccolò had brought him _biscotti_ as a treat, even though he had been trying to pry into the Toscan's business just a couple nights before. Dogs burrowing into the badger's den rarely withdrew unscathed.

_He doesn't understand. He cannot. _

_For his own good._

When Niccolò finally reached above decks, having completed his duty in giving Ranger Will the hot water skin, he heaved a sigh of relief that earned him many an estranged but uninterested looks from the night crew. He ignored them and strode to the helm, where the _timoniere_ stood keeping a straight course. The wind was with them that night, and they were making excellent progress.

The helmsman, upon recognizing the half brother of a man superior in rank to him, nodded his head in acknowledgement to Niccolò but made no eye contact. The gangly youth tried not to take offence.

"Nice night," he commented in Toscan. The helmsman, Savio, merely grunted, inconspicuously glancing around. He'd heard it was bad luck to speak with this runt of a boy.

Niccolò cocked an eyebrow. "How much longer will it be?"

Savio looked uncomfortable, but, having no way of avoiding the question without undermining his skills as a sailor, finally said, "Just over a fortnight."

A fortnight. That was two weeks. It may have been shorter if not for the necessity of keeping a low profile, to remain from being seen as much as possible. That meant avoiding heavy shipping lanes, naval patrols, and of course, pirate-infested waters. The _Sterna Argento_ was well designed to outpace many inferior ships, but that warranted no reason to be rash.

Savio appeared reluctant to elaborate, not that Niccolò expected him to. Few wanted to exchange words with the bully victim, lest they get bullied themselves.

So, Niccolò said nothing more, choosing instead to watch the final dregs of daylight be leeched from the sky by the sea. Unconsciously, he lifted his hand to run a finger along the raised bump under his eye, tender and swollen. He winced, dropping his hand quickly.

_It could have been worse_, he thought wilfully. _Infinitely worse_.

He shifted, and felt the multiple bruises dotting his entire body, most hidden by his shirt and trousers.

_Then again, it could have been better._

* * *

**All right, mates, it's decision time. Do you or do you not wish for Crowley to continue the adventure with Halt and Horace? He has only come so far, at the expense of Halt's logic, because you guys all expressed your adoration of him ;) At this point I wish the decision to fall unto you. He won't vanish, just appear on occasion when I write of the goings on in Araluen, with Gilan and all them. So, all up to you, mates :)**


	20. Mal de mur

**So...a big thanks to lili for her review that consisted merely a single question mark. Yes, daft-headed boob that I am, I somehow managed to replace To Death and Glory's chapter 18 with the chapter 18 of a different story (of a different fandom!) So it's fixed now. *shrugs sheepishly* Sorry for that confusion. **

**Dear me...how do I remember what pants are for in the morning? *shakes head grimly* **

**And thanks to all who voted! It was tied by Rizamute and then broken by Caithlinn13 via PM.**

**Now I'll shut up! :D**

* * *

~20~_ Mal de mur_

Skirl Handor's brow was furrowed in confusion as the small Ranger continued to retch over the bulwarks, as though determined to prove that one could literally heave his guts out.

"I do not be understanding," he muttered, scratching his shaggy hair and upsetting his helmet in the process. "A full tankard would spill no mead on these waves. Why do Ranger Halt be this way?"

Horace, who was busy honing his sword with a whetstone, glanced up and over at the wretched man at the _Wolfwing_'s rail, whose pitiful, gut-wrenching sounds of bile expulsion were impossible to ignore.

"Oh, don't worry about him." He flicked the hand holding the stone before returning to his task. "But...mind your helmet."

Handor grasped onto his horned cap as though to prevent it from flying away. Though he hadn't been savvy to the extent of the seasickness, he knew of Ranger Halt's renown of vomiting in the helmets of Skandians who displeased him.

Before Handor could ponder further at his passenger's peculiar reaction to near placid water, Halt, pale and tinged with a sickly green, pulled away from the side, wiping his mouth. He glared at the skirl, but Horace had gone back to sharpening his sword, and so was oblivious...or else was just ignoring the fire for his own safety.

"You be alright now, Ranger Halt?" Handor asked cautiously.

"Just...peachy," the man very nearly purred, more thorns than roses.

Horace, in very airy way, commented, "Gilan was right. Your face changes colours with the undulating sea quite spectacularly!"

Halt glared at the knight with such livid vehemence that Handor almost stepped back a pace. Horace bowed his head lower over his sword but could not hide the blush.

"Thank you, _Sir_ Horace," the Ranger finally said crisply, every word oozing sarcasm. "It gives me such pleasure when the young relay so much respect for their elders."

This was a very touchy exchange, as though one wrong move and the whole ship would go up in flames, and Handor was relieved when Kragnot, his kirril and blood brother, approached from the helm.

"Steady winds and no sails on the horizon," he reported unnecessarily. Redundant the declaration may be, Handor was thankful for the interruption. He patted the huge man on the arm.

"Well done, Kragnot."

He thought furiously for a line of conversation, not wishing for a confrontation with the still fuming Ranger on his ship.

"With favourable winds, we do be near Toscana in just over two weeks," he announced at last.

"And if we're lucky, we'll overcome the ship that took Will," Halt said, finally tearing his spearing gaze from Horace.

But _luck_, he knew, was as fickle as the ocean they sailed on. He never really relied on luck for anything, and his words had merely been a passing wind of superfluous hope.

Ignorant of Halt's thoughts, Handor shook his head. "The ocean do be a wide place, Ranger Halt. If we be trying to reach Toscana before them, we may succeed if they be trying to avoid complications."

"What sort of complications?" asked Horace, putting away the whetstone and sheathing his blade.

"Just as they were wary on the roads of Araluen, they would be cautious of sea lanes," Halt explained.

"It be unfortunate if the Toscan ship be caught up," said Handor. "We be left wondering where they had gone once we do moor in Toscana, and would be searching for ages for something that never even made it there."

Halt looked astern, to where Araluen was growing smaller and smaller with every breath of wind. By this time tomorrow, it would be too late to turn back. He missed his son already.

* * *

Fair winds propelled them at a favourable pace, and before long, Iberion stretched long to their port side. Four days at sea, and Halt was finally over his _mal de mur_.

_That's what it was, wasn't it?_ Horace thought, trying to remember what Alyss had called it. Not seasickness. No, Halt would never abide to that.

"What's the plan?" he asked of the Ranger, who was oiling the string of his longbow.

"Plan?"

"Once we reach Toscana?"

Halt regarded with a restrained expression. "Find Will, break him free, bring him home."

"That's very vague."

"Of _course_ it's vague!" Halt barked. "I won't know until we get there, all right?"

Horace's eyebrow lifted for a heartbeat. "So we're winging it again."

The Ranger grumbled, stashing the string oil away. "If you've got any brighter ideas, please, _share_, oh great knight."

Horace turned to Halt, whose challenging gaze was starting to get irritatingly perturbing. He scowled back.

"_You're_ the brains of this mission. I just do stuff."

Halt sighed, frown deepening. "According to Handor, we will be landing in Port Ostia, and we'll make our way inland from there. We could sail up the river, but the less attraction we collect, the better."

Horace nodded thoughtfully. Then, as the silence stretched on, he asked, "Have you ever been to Romena?"

Halt shook his head. "No, but I heard it is magnificent. Architectural masterpieces unsurpassed by any other city. Great artists and renowned figures. I've seen sketches in books, nothing more."

"Is the Arena in Romena?"

Again the Ranger shook his head. "No, I don't believe it is. If anything, it would be in seclusion. Where, though, is the problem. We will have to seek answers in the city."

Horace knew that "seek answers" did not simply mean asking a random civilian on the street. Halt was a master interrogator.

Again the silence fell like a cloak about the pair, leaving each to their own thoughts. It was because of this that Horace began to fidget, sitting one way, then another, or else moving his arms a certain way only to change position a moment later. Finally, Halt sighed.

"What is it now, Horace?"

The knight looked nonplussed. "What?"

"You keep _moving_. Is there something on your mind?"

"Oh." Horace seemed to just notice what he had been doing. "Yes, I suppose there is."

"...Care to indulge?"

"Well..." He just refrained from shifting again. "It's just that...nothing has happened yet."

Now Halt frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean..._something_ always happens. We haven't seen pirates, sprung a leak or even stubbed a _toe_ since casting off. Seems, just, peculiar."

Blinking, Halt couldn't help but concur. Their journeys were never uneventful. There was always something to slow them down or distract them or throw them into some kind of outlandish, unforeseeable peril. It was enough to unsettle him, too, like a bowstring being drawn by an invisible hand, not knowing when it was going to be released, or snap.

He scowled. "Wonderful. Now you've gone and made me fret."

"Skirl Handor!"

A Skandian emerged from below decks, seeking the skipper at the helm. Curious, Halt and Horace listened in, moving astern at the man's report.

"Olaf, what be wrong?" Handor asked, brow lines deepening.

"It seems that we have a stowaway."

Halt, now nearing the helm, exchanged a look with Horace. What kind of fool would try to stowaway on a wolfship? One asking for a black eye, supposedly. Friendly to Araluans or not, Skandians didn't much like being taken for blind blockheads.

Handor sighed. "Who do he be, then? What do he want?"

Olaf whistled, and a second crewman emerged from the hatch. In his hands was a wriggling, growling sack, which he lay on the deck and prepared to untie.

Halt frowned at the burlap bundle, squirming as though full of rowdy puppies. It looked awfully small to fit a stowaway...

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

_Four days ago..._

Gilan's mind was in an uproar. His chest was tight as a drum and his belly an empty pit.

Crowley was missing!

Heart in his mouth, Gilan searched everywhere. Weaving in and out of the organized chaos of Port Stonewall's docks, he checked every nook and cranny fit for a mischievous boy – inside crates and barrels, under overturned dingy boats, within small huddles of goats or sheep, even under the jetties themselves – nothing. The boy had simply vanished.

"Crowley!" he called, turning more than a few curious heads. "_Crowley!_"

_This can't be happening_, he moaned inwardly, unable to hide the anxious trepidation from his features, exposing his emotions readily to the world. _You fool! Halt's not gone two minutes and you lose __his only son! You bleeding numpty!_

Hope was ebbing with the tide that had borne his companions away to sea. His searching became more desperate, redundant. He began looking behind pilings and posts, beneath a heap of discarded canvas and around lifts. He attempted to check inside a large chest he knew very well was locked shut. He rummaged through netting, checked the guide boats, demanded of everyone if they had seen a young boy running about. He came out with nothing.

_Halt's never going to forgive me for this_, Gilan thought mournfully. _God, Crowley, where are you?_

It took him several moments to realize that he had returned to the berth that the _Wolfwing_ had once occupied, leaning against a post and favouring his right arm. A few men were regarding him inquisitively, but did not approach. Gilan recognized them as being deck hands who had helped the Skandians load up the last of their cargo. Maybe they had seen...

"Excuse me," he said, proud that he had managed to keep his voice steady. "You helped load the _Wolfwing_, correct?"

The first man, a sandy blonde, nodded. "Aye, sir. Helped carry in one of the last crates, I did. Never thought I'd be doing that for Skandians, no sir."

"Eat a lot, they do!" said the second, nodding at the third. "So much vittles for one ship!"

"And you saw my companions, a Ranger and a knight," Gilan pressed, glancing from one deck hand to the next, seeking recognition. All three nodded.

"Heard one was Ranger Halt, no less," said Blonde. "I don't believe it. Halt is seven foot tall."

Gilan swallowed the urge to laugh, scoff, and smack the man across the forehead. "And with us was a boy, very young."

The dark-haired one nodded now. "Ah yes, the wee spratling. We saw him all right."

Gilan seized hold. "Where was he when you saw him last? Was he with me?"

"No."

"...Then _where was he?_"

Blonde shook his head. "Can't tell you that."

"_What?_" Gilan felt himself swell with fury. Who were these men to keep Crowley from him? Kidnappers? Slavers? Did they aim for a ransom?

For the first time, the deck hands looked truly unsettled. This was a Ranger they had just riled. Safer to rile a hulking bull, it was.

"We...promised him we wouldn't tell," said Black, and the brown-haired agreed.

"He said it was a surprise. A surprise for his papa."

The Ranger could have gnawed through marble. "What _kind_ of surprise?"

An exchange of looks. A few chewed lips. Finally, Blonde said, "He was going on an adventure, and he was going on it with his father."

Gilan's racing heart plummeted to visit his toes. "You...you mean...?"

Brown grimaced. "We kinda...sorta...helped him stow away on the ship."

"You _WHAT?_"

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

_Present..._

Halt peered closer at the squirming burlap bag, which he would have assumed to be filled with pissed-off cats had it not been making human animal sounds.

"Rawr! _Raaawrr!_"

The sack muffled the voice, but it sounded young. Very young.

And then the Skandian finally untied the last knot, and the sack's contents exploded out.

Halt blanched. "What the— _Crowley?_"

The boy wriggled and thrashed as the Skandian tried to hold him steady, pounding his teeny fists against the great man's muscular arms, as effective as tossing pillows at castle walls. "_Imma Ranger and yewr gonna regret crossing me!_"

"Crowley, what the _devil_ are you doing here?"

"Papa! Danger! I will protect yew!" With a final squirm, Crowley broke free of the Skandian's grasp and came to stand with his back Halt, between him and the crewman. In his hand was a small rock, probably ballast pillaged from the bilge.

"For _Aralan!_" Crowley cried, charging at Handor with the rock held high.

Fast as a whip, Halt grabbed the raised arm, ceasing the boy. Crowley struggled to free himself.

"Papa, dere's pirates! Defeat the captain and ship's ours!"

"Crowley, enough of this nonsense!" Halt snapped, and the child was instantly cowed. He turned to look at his father, confusion and sadness welling in his features.

"But, Papa—"

"How did you get aboard this ship?" Halt demanded. "Where's Gilan?"

Crowley's eyes were as wide and mournful as a baby owl's. "Uncle Gilan in Aralan. I come to help save Uncle Will."

"You were told to stay there," Halt growled.

"But...I wanna help. Uncle Will's in danger, Papa...I wanna help..."

With a gruff sigh, the Ranger massaged his eyes with his fingers, releasing his son's arm. "How the blazes did you get on here?"

Crowley puffed out his chest. "Imma Ranger. I sneak aboard unseen!"

"He was found in the forepeak, hiding in the spare lines," the Skandian crewman said coarsely, face carefully guarded. "I had gone down in pursuit of a stray chicken when I heard him scramble back inside. I'm guessing he was going out to look for food."

Crowley looked sheepish, but for getting caught, not for stowing away on the _Wolfwing._ "Rangers get hun-gy, too."

Halt was aware that everyone had their eyes on him, a sea of amusement, shock, and curiosity that was almost enough to summon a blush to his cheeks. He sighed again as Crowley hung his head.

"What am I to do with you, boy?"

Crowley said nothing, and it was because of this that Halt was able to hear his little stomach growl. Paternity instincts kicked back in, then, and he turned to Handor.

"He needs food."

The skirl nodded at Olaf, who strode away to the hatches, casting an amused look back at Halt as he did so.

The Ranger was aware of Horace, standing nearby, and looked to him.

"What?"

The knight was grinning. "Oh, nothing."

* * *

**Sorry, no Will part today :( Next time!**


	21. Toscana

***Peeks from the shadows, posts chapter, hastens away without anyone seeing***

* * *

~21~ Toscana

It wasn't the first time Will had laid eyes on the gleaming coastline of Toscana, but when he rose from the depths of the ship's belly late in the morning, it did not fail to seize hold of his breath and render him awestricken as it had the first time years ago.

Cerulean stretches of becalmed ocean, warmed by the sun and reflecting the purity of the sky, provided a carpet for the bed of emeralds that stretched endlessly from north to south. Rising in the distance like massive dunes of jade were mountains bearded with wisps of tattered cloud. Thin crescents of ashen beach fringed the land, lapped at incessantly by the sighing waves of the sea. Birds wheeled about in the sky, floating effortlessly on the cool air thermals high above, taunting the sailors below with their raucous cries.

"She is a sight to behold, is she not?"

Will did not need to turn to know that it was Septimus who had come to stand beside him at the rail, and fortunately, he had steeled himself before his body had a chance to flinch at the sudden approach.

"It is a beautiful land, yes," Will agreed, albeit tightly.

"Makes home seem...a little drab, perhaps?"

The Ranger glanced at the lord now, lining his face with a faint hue of offence. Araluen, though not as vivid in colour, had treasures of her own – deep, glorious lakes surrounded by rolling hillocks of green; misty vales teeming with fauna, as brilliant as a wedding with the blooming of wildflowers; ranges of silvery mountains forever crowned with diadems of snow and cloud; endless plains of grass forever wavering with the winds, the best of land's imitations of the sea.

Septimus recognized the hint of hurt and smiled dashingly, placing a jesting arm around the Ranger's shoulders.

"You offend too quickly and too readily, my young friend," he said merrily, and gave him a little shake. Will's neck twinged a little, but it wasn't enough to make him wince, and he remained stolid in the face of Septimus' joviality.

"I did not intend to demean you or your northern homeland, which has charms of her own, I'm sure."

"Yet that does stop you from posing yours as the better," Will uttered, almost witheringly. Septimus now cast him a nonplussed look, brow creasing. Then an expression of understanding overcame him, and he gave Will's shoulders another squeeze.

"Ah, you miss Araluen already. Do not worry, _amico_. We shall show you wonders that will make you forget about that frozen rock."

Will felt himself bristle at such arrogance, but curbed his tongue else he say something he would regret. Instead, he feigned disinterest and indifference, and instead watched the land go by with every breath of wind.

"Port Ostia will soon be within sights," the lord declared, finally releasing Will's shoulders.

And indeed, less than two days passed before the unmistakable skyline of a port town was revealed over the land, swarmed with ships of all shapes and sizes. Thin banners of smoke trickled up from orange and white buildings that were scattered about the delta, part of which encompassed the entrance to the river, forming a bay that was a natural harbour for the docks and its occupants.

The _Sterna Argento_ was to sail upriver, all the way to Romena disguised as a mailing ship. Will knew this by a little eavesdropping, sidling up to a conversation between Julius and Vieri, a large, formidable Toscan who looked capable of standing his own in an arm wrestle against Horace. Vieri, evidently, had contacts in Ostia that should pull enough strings to allow them to pass through the barrier of the River Tibern free of challenge. That was the theory, anyway.

"Septimus ordered you to put these on."

Will turned just in time to have a bundle of clothes hit him in the face. He caught it before it fell to the deck, disgruntled at such crude manners, until he saw who had chucked it.

"Niccolò?"

The youth had turned away briskly, hiding what could only be a purple plum of a bruise over his right eyebrow.

"They will make you look like one of us. Put them on."

"What happened to you?" Will demanded, striding forward and catching him by the shoulder. He tried to turn him around to face the Ranger, but he resisted stubbornly, even turning his head when Will walked around to stand before him.

"I...had a disagreement with the wall," Niccolò blurted finally, like an attempt to portray humour. Then he grew defensive, like he always did. "What is it to you?" he snapped hotly.

Though he had expected the spearing tone, Will still winced. Inconspicuously, he glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear before speaking again.

"You don't have to face this alone, you know. You can talk to me—" He went to place a hand on Niccolò's shoulder, but the youth flinched violently, as though Will had pricked a sensitive spot. The Ranger withdrew his hand quickly, but he was still drilled with an enraged stare.

"I have been alone for twenty years," he hissed. "I am not weak, Araluan."

"I'm not saying you're weak—"

"But you think me so!" Niccolò barked, turning more than a few curious heads. Not many of the sailors spoke Araluan, so they continued on with their work with a careless shrug. The youth lowered his voice to a hiss. "You pester me, prod at me, demand to know every little detail about my strife. It wearies me."

Will shook his head, leery at the rising heat. "It isn't like that at all, Niccolò. Everyday I...I see you, hurting, struggling, outwardly firm but crumbling inside. This is not _weakness_, Niccolò. The fact that you are here, now, is proof of that."

The hard look did not dissipate, but Niccolò could feel barriers breaking, a hue of wanting shifting behind his eyes. A desperate twinge, a desire for love and acceptance. Julius treated him like a dog, a dumb creature of little to no emotion. Will was the only one to show him any sort of affection in his life. Not even his own mother loved him the way the Ranger seemed to, despite knowing him for only a few weeks. Will was like a brother, an elder brother who filled a hole Julius made no effort to occupy, no matter how hard Niccolò tried to impress his kin.

_But love is a flaw_, he thought, casting his mind back to when he was a young child at the feet of his father, who only cared for him because of his mother, and even then, very little. He remembered the words the man spoke as he justified his perfidy and adultery to a priest.

_It is a burden, a bane of success. It hinders the opportunity for greatness and prosperity. Love is for the weak._

It did not bypass Niccolò's mind that, had his father not been unfaithful, he would never have been born. But it did not change the fact that the youth was not supposed to exist, and in actuality had been a product of an unorthodox creed his father so flamboyantly and steadfastly aligned himself with. In this, it was safe to say that it was because of Lord Renaldo's _fondness_ of Niccolò's mother, the mistress, the harlot, that the man had paid his youngest son any form of attention.

To say the least, Julius followed many of his father's so-called doctrines, perhaps for legitimate beliefs, perhaps for favourable light in Renaldo's eyes. The physician, a master manipulator with a talent for tongue, was an ingenious gem in the family who tolerated Niccolò's presence more than accepted it. Niccolò saw this, recognized that he was treated with such triviality because Julius knew that he was the result of a fleeting fancy his father took to another woman, despite his own mother being a devastated victim of that very same faithlessness. To him, Renaldo was an idol, a figurehead to a new and glorious way of life. The thought of love was as credible as the pagan legends of old, which was why he had Pietra but dragged her around like a dead goose. She was a tool of pleasure, nothing more. And Niccolò...he was not but a burden, always, a shadow lost in his father's darkness.

Then this man came along. This Ranger, this _foreigner_, who knew more about cheese-making than he did of Niccolò's past, yet showed him more affection than the youth thought he deserved. Why?

Why?

It was the resounding _why_ that raised the barbs of his façade and drew blood from Will's peaceful approach, making him recoil in confusion and pain. He continuously tried and failed to breach Niccolò's fortifications, an establishment built around himself by his own hand, brick by brick, for every exclusion dumped upon him by those he was supposed to love by default, and they him. Yet the Ranger kept coming.

_Why?_

Will was staring at him now, a slight furrow of puzzlement on his brow, consequential to Niccolò's extended silence.

"I can help you," the Ranger said finally, as though not tied to death row with the approach of the Munerian Games.

Niccolò shook his head, ice melted, fire smothered, a melancholy despair replacing both.

"Have you ever saved anyone from a peat bog, Will Treaty?"

The sudden question seemed to shock him, for his frown deepened and he did not get the chance to speak before someone intruded.

It was Vieri, the great brute of a man who had every figure of importance in Ostia in his gold-lined pocket. A friend to Julius since childhood, he was an invaluable asset in the last phases of the ploy.

"Prepare yourself," the Toscan growled, pushing Niccolò and Will away from each other. He sneered at the Ranger, who stood firm with admirable impassiveness. "Remember what we told you – keep your head low, or the last legs of this journey will be kicking you the rest of the way. Try anything and I'll make sure you suffer for it."

If the threat unsettled Will, he did not reveal it, and merely watched as Vieri shove him aside as though there wasn't an entire deck to walk around on. He turned to watch him stride away, as graceful as a rhinoceros, then faced Niccolò again and raised an eyebrow.

The youth permitted a small smile of consolation. "Vieri is a pushover. Do not worry about him. You won't even see him once we are past Ostia."

"Why's that?"

Niccolò shrugged. "I overheard him speaking with Julius. He'll be departing once we get to the river. I suppose it's all part of the plan."

_Besides, it's not_ him _you should be worrying about_, he added inwardly, failing to miss the shadowy figure ducking back down the hatch, out of Will's line of sight.

Giovanni could be subtle when he wanted to. It was why most of Niccolò's bruises were hidden from casual view. With the exception to the blotch on his forehead, of course.

* * *

As a "courier ship," the _Sterna Argento_ had priority over merchant and passenger vessels aiming to head upriver. At the prompting of overseers, she gradually wove in and out of the masses awaiting their turn to be inspected and accepted, a lithe cat among the lions, and within three hours of entering Port Ostia's bay, she was next in line to be allowed through the barrier.

Will, disguised as a fellow sailor, stared ahead at the one thing that prevented ships from simply rowing their way up the Tibern – a thick, massive chain, stretching from one side of the river to the other that was controlled by powerful winches in the stocky towers at either end. Held just below the waterline, it could scupper a ship faster than a blow from a catapult, tearing its hull and sending it nose-first into the depths. But if given the word, the Chain could be lowered to the river bottom, allowing a ship to sail on.

Approaching the Chain meant approaching Romena...but it also meant approaching land.

Will was making calculations in his head. No, he was not a quick swimmer, but being able to swim at all put him at an advantage: only the smallest handful of sailors on the Silver Tern could even so much as tread water.

_Rash fool, you'll never make it!_ the preservative-self scoffed at him, but the desperate, freedom-seeking side was not to be cowed.

_What have you to lose? Try, and you won't see daylight for a few days. Big deal! _Don't_ try, and you lose a chance of liberation._

Will sighed, letting his head sag with his shoulders over the edge of the rail.

Now...or never.

There was a longboat that had been cast off from the _Sterna Argento_, bearing the captain, Lord Septimus, Vieri and two rowers. It met with a small vessel that was moored not far from the southern tower, which helped control the Chain with its twin on the other side of the river. Will watched as the three Toscans boarded the vessel and met with an overseer, their negotiations silent from so far away. But the coin pouch that was exchanged was not so inconspicuous, and the Ranger had a feeling it was no mere toll for lowering the barrier – it was, after all, quite sizable and vanished up the overseer's sleeve as soon as it left Vieri's paw. Will shook his head in disgust. Corruption came with power, no matter where it stood.

Septimus and the captain of the Silver Tern returned to the ship, leaving Vieri to be rowed to shore. Will watched them as they conversed casually...and then he realized that everyone else was doing the same, paying no attention to their prisoner.

_If I slipped down using a rope, I won't even make a splash_, he thought, the prospect of an escape attempt clenching his hands like claws and weeping sweat through his back and underarms. _Without my cloak, I may have too difficult a time hiding in the woods...but I could disappear into the crowds of Ostia..._

The further he was away from Romena when he made his escape, the better – there would be a lower concentration of corrupted Toscans affiliated with the Munerian Games outside of the grand city. At least, that's what Will was hoping.

In fact, it was what he was relying on.

There was a dock but fifty paces from the starboard side of the ship. All he needed to do was jump...

A hand fell on the back of his neck, and he cringed as it tightened like a vice.

"Change of plans, '_amico_.' You're going below decks. Julius doesn't want you to _try_ anything while we sail upriver."

Will thrashed out of Giovanni's grip, whirling around to drill the taller man with a poisonous glare.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

Giovanni's eyebrow rose cockily, a maddening smirk twisting his mouth. "What are you going to do, Araluan sneak? Shoot me from afar? Slink up behind me and stab me in the back like a coward? You don't scare me."

_He's baiting me_, Will thought, bewildered. _Why is that?_

With a grotesque sneer, Giovanni grabbed his upper arm and began to haul him towards the hatchway like a disobedient child. Will, cheeks burning with embarrassment, dug in his heels and tried to pry the Toscan's bruising fingers off.

"Let me go!"

"Giovanni, what is the meaning of this?"

Julius strode down the deck, face darkened with fury as he beheld his valuable prisoner being treated so.

"Really, _compagno__!_ I asked you to _escort_ him below, not drag him like a pig to the slaughter house!"

Giovanni scowled, giving Will a shake but not releasing him. "He was not going to obey, _signore_. He was standing at the rail, biding his time before he could make his escape. I felt force was necessary."

"You don't actually think that this man would do anything _foolish_, do you?" Julius demanded, forcefully sounding astonished. "Only a _fool_ would go into these waters. They are, after all, infested with sharks."

Will involuntarily glanced to the rail, wary. A moment later, he called Julius' bluff. It was a lie, a deterrent. There may be one shark or two, lured by the garbage dumped by ships and the city, but not enough for him to worry about in making an escape.

"Now," said Julius calmly, "bring him below, gently. What good is a product when damaged beyond use?"

Giovanni's growl was smothered in his throat, and Will felt not but relief when he finally released his arm. Casting a glower at the large man, the Ranger straightened his shirt sleeve and strode to the hatch, descending to the depths of his own accord.

Steady thudding indicated a follower, and he took it as a hint to keep walking. The brig was in the next compartment, he knew, and he sagged slightly at the thought of spending the next few days in a dank cage. Perhaps, if he was lucky, they would only keep him there until they were more upriver...

Will pushed open a door, revealing a dismal section of the hold, barely lit by the leaking of sunlight that oozed from above. The prison was a box of bars at one end of the room, a desk across from it and a pile of crates at the far end. Other than him, his escort and the occasional rat, it was barren of life.

The Ranger stepped inside.

"Finally."

A blunt force slammed into his back and sent him staggering into the room. He crashed into the desk, which was nailed to the deck and so did not give under the impact. A pained cry escaped his lips as Will hit the floor, legs throbbing, and he heard a door slam before his collar was winched tight by a vengeful fist, cutting into his throat as effectively as a noose.

"Gahg!" Choking, Will's hands scrambled at his collar, thrashing about as he tried to break free.

"Make a fool out of me, will you?"

Now his assailant threw him to the side, and an echoing _clang_ succeeded him as he slammed into the cage and crashed back to the floor. Dazed, he tasted blood, his lip cut on his teeth. But that did not worry him. It was the voice that worried him. It was the very same voice he'd heard over a week ago, when a faceless assaulter grabbed him by his injured neck and pushed him against the bulwarks with his own body, rendering him immobile. The attacker had lowered his tone, disguising himself, but now the Ranger was hearing it again, and in the darkness, could not yet put face to voice.

He heard the Toscan approach, and lashed out blindly with his fists. Knuckles contacted flesh, and there was a bark of anger and pain. Kicking, Will tried to break the other man's kneecap, but he saw a shadow shift, and felt a fist pound his own face. His head cracked against the floor, blinking as he saw stars.

Bruised lips bled over reddened teeth, a salty coating tingling on his tongue. He groaned, and then a thick, calloused hand clamped over his mouth. The rough fingers squeezed as he was hauled upright by the jaw, his eyes wide with fear.

"I told you to never speak to Niccolò." The hand tightened, nails digging into Will's cheeks. "You should have listened."

The Ranger thought his jaw would snap in half, collapse in on itself. He tried to bite the hand, but it was holding him too strongly, and his own hands were useless as they scrambled at the Toscan's arms, trying to push them away.

The attacker's rancid breath was on his face, and then the pinprick of what could only be a blade pressed against his chest. The throbbing mass that was the fear in his entire being deepened even further.

It was to Will's surprise and apprehension when the hand finally released his jaw, allowing him to inhale a fresh breath of air greedily.

"Now," the attacker purred, leaning over him, relishing his revenge. A beam of sunlight gleamed over one ear, almost enlightening his profile. "Squeal. I love it when they squeal."

Then he moved. He moved and at last his face was outlined, if even for a moment. Will's astonishment was quickly swamped by his fury. He trembled, barely able to stutter a single word.

"_You_."

Giovanni leered. "Catch on quick, pretty thing." His arm moved blindingly fast as he swept the blade down Will's side, but the Ranger did not give him the satisfaction of screaming as blood soaked his shirt. Giovanni snickered, with anticipation? Excitement? Whatever it may be, the snakes of trepidation worming in Will's belly morphed into twisting dragons, and his breathing quickened, unable to get enough air.

The Toscan noticed, and he chuckled with pleasure.

"That's much better," he said, lowering himself over the Ranger.

What he had planned to do yet remained a mystery to Will, for he made his move before ever finding out what. Spreading his thumb away from the rest of his fingers in a V, he slammed his hand into Giovanni's throat, and the Toscan gasped and coughed in panic, falling away. Will scrambled to his feet, bruised and bloodied, and made for the door. A fist clamped onto his ankle, stopping him. He reached out to grab something, anything, and his hand found some kind of club-like object that he swung around, smashing Giovanni across the face.

The Toscan screamed, Will fled, fled to find sunlight, to find safety.

He nearly tripped and flew headlong into the base of the ladder, but he managed to retain his balance and scramble up the ship's stairs, into the daylight's welcome embrace.

There were cries of astonishment as he burst above decks—a staggering man beaten half to death never managed to blend well with a crowd—but he had no ears for those. Only the rail was in his sights, and less than a moment later, he had one foot on the starboard bulwarks and was vaulting off, arms peaking together as he dove into the bay.

Eyes shut against the saltiness, he propelled himself forward and down, mostly forward, struggling to get as far away from the _Sterna Argento_ as he could before rising for air. The water stung like little nettles in his mouth and ribs where he had been cut, but it was a rejuvenating pain. It was the pain of his freedom.

_Just a little further...Now, air. I need air!_

The water grew warmer and brighter as he neared the surface, his lungs like bucking stallions, infuriated, kicking at his midriff in a mad fit of rebellion. But then he burst free, a ragged gasp that startled even himself as he took in air.

He heard cries from behind, but did not turn. He swam, clumsily, and mourned the fact that he could not move very quickly.

_They'll lower a rowboat and overcome me before I reach the docks!_ he thought in despair, urging himself faster but making little progress. He felt like a frog, swinging his arms and legs out to the side before propelling himself forward. The pace was maddening. The dock was only ten more metres...

"Oi, _cazzo!_"

Will recognized the voice of Giovanni, and felt himself falter. Why was he getting so uneasy...?

"Forget your little lover?"

_Huh?_ Despite himself, Will turned, treading water, and he paled as he saw the large Toscan holding someone at the rail.

"Niccolò."

Giovanni's thick arm was wrapped around the youth's neck, hand covering his mouth despite his squirming. Will's jaw fell open, and he nearly choked on seawater. Why was Julius allowing him to do that?

Giovanni had a wolfish grin. "Catch!" he barked, and threw Niccolò over the side.

The young man vanished with a splash, resurfaced for a few seconds, thrashing and crying out in fear. He couldn't swim. In a matter of moments, he submerged, the air bubbles that emitted from his mouth decreasing bit by bit.

"Niccolò, _no!_"

Will's arms pumped as his legs kicked, thrust into motion after three seconds of shocked immobility. He moved little quicker than before, and it seemed an eternity before he came alongside the _Sterna Argento_, over where Niccolò had vanished. Filling his aching lungs, Will dove, pulling himself into the darkness. He couldn't see. His eyes were closed.

_Do it. Do it before—_

He opened them.

The salt burned like brands, but he only blinked, again and again and again. Tears were as effective as throwing sparks at a fire to douse it. But he could now see Niccolò, struggling feebly at the remorseless grasp of the ocean depths, dying horribly.

_No, not now!_

Pulling himself down a few more feet, he grasped Niccolò by the shoulders, hands winding around his shirt for extra grip, and then he began to kick, kick with all his might.

Niccolò was as limp as a boned fish. A burden, dragging Will down like a sack of sand from the ocean floor. Had he been a strong swimmer, he would have had no issues. But he wasn't. Water was not his element. Right now, it was his enemy.

_Just a few...more...feet..._

He had broken the surface before he even realized it, taking at least a second before opening his mouth to inhale. On his third gasp, Niccolò's weight fought back and dragged him down, and Will choked as salty water hit the back of his throat.

"Get them aboard, _presto, presto!_"

Will's lungs were still under siege when two arms hooked up under his armpits from behind, hoisting him up onto a longboat. His own arms were wrapped around Niccolò, who, upon reaching air, gasped awake, his blue face flaring red as he coughed, then heaved up water.

"Let him go, fool man. Release him!"

Strong hands pried Will's off of the youth, who was then able to roll onto his front and retch the sea out of his stomach. The Ranger barely noticed, still choking on the saltiness that coated his throat.

"What kind of damn fool stunt was that, boy?"

Will suddenly found himself face to face with Septimus, who was red with fury. Eyes streaming, he could make out three other figures – the captain and the two rowers, who had accompanied the lord to speak with the overseer of the Chain. They must have returned just in time to see Will leap over the side of the _Sterna Argento_.

"Get him up there."

Once recovered, Will was roughly manhandled back aboard the ship. His cheeks were burning with shame, yet once his feet touched deck, he pulled away from his supporter and straightened his back, glaring defiance at the gawking sailors.

Julius was cussing and swearing as he strode down the ship towards them.

"What the blazes do you think you were doing?" he snapped, ignoring his brother entirely in favour of his prize. "_Figlio d'un cane!_ You nearly condemned us all!"

The smack of Julius' hand meeting Will's cheek was painfully loud on the silent ship, and the Ranger had only recoiled because of the abruptness of it. Now, though, he turned back to the Toscan, eyebrows a dark line of rage. Julius didn't so much as waver, but before he could continue, Septimus stepped in.

"You betrayed my trust, Araluan," he hissed, bristling with hostility of his own. "I should have had you locked away as soon as Toscana was in sight. And now, you will spend the rest of the voyage stuffed in a cell!" He turned to the sailors. "Take him away! I do not want to see so much of an inch of his pale northern flesh!"

"Is that all?"

Septimus turned in surprise, eyebrows raised, as someone stepped forward. Will felt his hackles rise.

Giovanni leered at them all, a dark river of drying blood oozing down one side of his face.

"Is that all?" he demanded again, beady eyes scanning the crowd. "He attacks me, endangers us all with his foolhardy escape attempt, and all he suffers is a few days in the dark? What justice is this?"

Julius frowned, stepping forward. "_He_ attacked you?"

"Yes!" Giovanni snapped, spittle flying from his lips in rage. "I escorted him to his cell as you ordered, and he turned around and struck me!"

"Then how do you explain this?" The physician indicated to the blood and bruising on Will's face, as well as the cut on his ribs.

"I defended myself, _signore_. What choice had I?"

Julius turned to Will, brow still furrowed in question, but the Ranger's eyes were on large Toscan.

"Ever innocent, eh, Giovanni?" Will said smoothly, disbelieving quirks at the corners of his mouth. "You never hurt so much as a weevil, is that it?"

The other man sneered. "I have no reason to lay a finger on anyone, _stronzo_."

"No," Will replied calmly. "No, there's no reason for what you've done. None at all."

The Ranger knew that it was his word against Giovanni's, and any outright accusation would only escalate into a feud he was in no position to fight in now. Septimus recognized the conflict as well, and so instead turned to another quandary.

"You threw a man overboard in a mad effort to lure in another." He glanced at Will, almost wonderingly. "And you gave up freedom to fall for his trap."

Perhaps it was the full realization of what Will had done that struck the Toscans, for the whole ship suddenly seemed to stand still in time at the lord's words. All stared at the Ranger, but his eyes were only for Julius.

"Wouldn't _you _do the same? He's your brother."

Julius stared back, impassive. He heaved in a great breath that almost shuddered. "Yes...yes, he is my brother."

He shook himself, dancing around the question in a graceful pirouette, and looked back to two sailors. "Get him below. Post guards to watch him. So much as touch him and I'll have your hands nailed to the mast."

Will turned to follow, knowing that any other move would be fruitless. He glanced back once to see Niccolò standing at the rail, shivering like a wet puppy, beseeching eyes burning into his. And then the youth shook his head morosely, and a pit engulfed Will's stomach.

* * *

**I really am sorry for these sporadic updates :( But I'm being pulled in so many directions these past few months, by work, by school prep, by commission drawings, by _this_...even a guy. Imagine that. A guy, digging _me_. What has this world come to? But don't worry. I'll be pushing myself to the limits to get this shite done. I'm almost done the drawing, school course selection is in a week, and maybe I'll get good enough excuses to avoid that guy. Then I'll have all the hours off from work to toil at this! :D**


	22. Ostia

**My present to you, Caithlinn13! Happy Birthday! :D And I hope your diploma is as shiny as you hoped it would be!**

* * *

**There is a bit of Italian in here, translated by Google so it's most probably incorrect :P**

**Also, a quick reminder that this is a few days behind Will, so what happened in the last chapter transpired about three days prior to the events of this one. Enjoy!**

* * *

~22~ Ostia

Halt was never more relieved to see land again, and that was saying a lot. And so when he finally did, he very nearly gave an uncharacteristic whoop of elation.

"About goddamn time," he growled instead.

He calmly reached over and grasped the back of Crowley's shirt as the boy leaned over the balustrade as far as he could, standing on the second rail and making himself as tall as his father.

"Not so far, son," he said gruffly.

"Is that Aral'an, Papa?" Crowley asked excitedly, still leaning over the side as though in an effort to see how far his shirt could stretch. "We sail for days and days! We sail alla 'round da world already?"

Halt snorted, partially out of amusement, barely condescending. "No, boy. That's Toscana."

Crowley became really ecstatic, shaking so violently that Halt had to pull him off the rail out of fear of him falling right off and tumbling into the sea. The boy kept breaking free and climbing back on, however, so it was an ongoing battle. "That's where bandits steal Uncle Will!"

Halt pulled him off for the third time and then led him away from the side, and suddenly found himself beside Horace. He looked up to see the cold determination in the knight's eyes as he beheld the Toscan coastline. It was unnerving to see him stolid and calculating, a look that revealed so little of inner turmoil yet gave the impression of sheer dedication. His stance was that of a warrior posed on the edge of battle, energy and adrenaline kept in check, prepared to defend what he believed to be right with his life.

It was rare when Halt saw Horace little more than a mere boy, admirably blessed with prowess but a boy nonetheless. Now, however, he saw a man, a man with a purpose.

Horace finally realized that Halt was staring at him, and turned his head sharply to meet his gaze. He did not blush, gape or otherwise showed any signs of chagrin, and instead met the Ranger's steely aura with a marble mask of his own. Wordlessly, he nodded once.

"Let's teach those Toscan bastards what happens when they mess with Araluans."

* * *

The _Wolfwing_ moored beside a great hulking tub that made the wolfship look like a dingy, succeeding in enunciating the smaller vessel's agile grace and promise. Port Ostia was a vast, bustling dock with multiple designs of ships, however, so _Wolfwing_ attracted little attention on the grand scale of things. Plus, she was almost invisible behind her neighbour.

Halt couldn't help but inspect the surrounding moored ships, some with lateen sails, others rectangular; long ships, wides ships, deep ships with enough hull capacity to engulf entire herds of cattle; old, new, some that had yet to be christened and others that just needed someone to spill a drink and it would submerge into the bay. Ostia was a high-traffic area, to be sure, for it was a direct connection to the grand city of Romena, Toscana's capital and the Araluans' next destination.

Someone thumped up to the rail beside Halt, and heaved a great sigh.

"Oh, but it do be hot here," Handor grumbled, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. Being a northern seafarer, it indeed must have felt like he was only feet away from the sun this far south.

Glancing over his shoulder, Halt could see that many of the Skandians were in the same slightly dopy state, as they had been for the past few days. They had improved, but still not used to the stuffy Toscan weather, even when on the sea. It would be days yet before they were comfortably adapted to the heat. The Ranger himself wasn't in paradise, but at least he didn't feel a heatstroke was imminent.

"I thank you for bringing us this far, Skirl Handor," he said, lifting a hand for the Skandian to shake. "It means a lot."

Handor accepted the gesture, engulfing Halt's hand with his own—though they were near the same height, his paws seemed to have continued to grow to the average Skandian size. Which was to say, the size of platters.

"The pleasure do be all mine, Ranger," he said, nodding his shaggy head. "When do you be planning on getting back?"

Halt shook his head. The thought had not bypassed him. "I'm not entirely sure. We have no idea how long we will be. A week, two weeks, who knows. Maybe never. There's always that possibility, morbid that it is."

Handor's brow furrowed, down-turned mouth hidden by his yellow beard. "Do you be remembering that cliff we saw on the way down here?"

Nodding, Halt recalled the one peaked point of land that had been crowned with an ancient lighthouse. There had been many cliffs, obviously, that they had seen, but the Ranger knew that that was what the Skandian spoke of.

"It do be a high vantage point. When you do return, go to that cliff and light a fire during the day. Dampen a sheet, throw it over the fire and then pull it off again. Do this many times, and we do come to get you."

Halt nodded in understanding and appreciation. "I cannot thank you enough, Handor. How can we repay you?"

Smiling, the Skandian shrugged. "Bring back Oslave the Bear. He be kidnapped by Toscans, too, I do feel it in my bones. Bring him with you, bring him home."

* * *

Crowley sat on Horace's shoulders as the three waved the Skandians farewell, having restocked on supplies and Toscan brew and were ready to disembark. Evening was descending fast, and Handor wished to catch the tide rather than remain at the docks for the night.

Halt looked way, wincing at the bright light of the falling sun, and turned to Horace.

"Let's look for an inn. Anywhere clean..."

They picked their way through the docks, which were buzzing with activity despite the time of day. Wobbly-legged from so many days at sea, they kept their eyes open for pickpockets and other potential miscreants, ignored beggars and generally tried to blend in. Again, the multicultural hubbub was in their favour, so, though it wasn't flawless, their cover got them to an inn just within the walls of the seaside city. It was made of bricks, like many of the sun-bleached or else pale orange sandstone buildings that lined the not-so-straight, cobbled streets, which were capped with red clay roof tiles. Halt found himself anticipative in the prospect of seeing more of the port city, but now was not the time.

"The_ Dancing Dagger_," he read, glancing up at the swinging sign of the inn. It looked freshly painted, which indicated enough money to keep clean rooms, plus it had both the common tongue and Toscan written on it. The landlord must speak both. "Seems promising."

"Anything with _dagger_ in it doesn't seem promising to me," Horace grumbled, not out of reluctance, but of wariness.

It was then that a patron stumbled out of the front door, spineless and disoriented, singing a folk song that might have had something to do with either fish or poison, depending on which language he was slurring. But Horace paid no attention to the sot – it was the alluring aroma trailing out the door after him that hooked the knight's interest.

"Then again...perhaps the cook is just a specialist with knives..."

Halt's eyes rolled to the deepening sky. "It's a wonder why your stomach isn't wider than your shoulders, boy!"

The knight scowled back witheringly. "At least mine doesn't stick out further than my nose," he declared, sticking out his chest and bashing a fist against his lean middle.

Like a ruffled rooster, Halt seemed to swell with indignity. It had taken all of his willpower to not check his waistline. "You've been hanging around Will too much! Cracking wise—"

"Puppy!"

The Ranger cut himself off as Crowley began to follow a stray dog down the street. He darted after him and scooped him up.

"Puppy!" Crowley protested, pointing and scowling in frustration. Then he gave a little whimper. "I want Ebony."

Halt's brow creased as Horace looked away.

"Come on, lad," the Ranger said lowly, bringing him back towards the inn. "You'll get to see Ebony soon, I promise."

Though it was not wholly responsible to bring a young child into a building full of potential drunks, Halt reassured himself by taking the boy up to the rooms they immediately rented upon entering the inn, and he had the food brought up to them rather than going down to eat in the taproom. The doors of the rooms locked and had floor wedges, so as to deter unwanted visitors in the night, and the windows didn't open.

Upon completing a meal of fresh mutton stew with warm rye bread, Halt was content on turning in for the night, but Horace decided to have a pint before returning to his own room just down the hall. So even with Halt recalling that the knight had done this, he found himself unusually surprised when Horace came knocking later that night, having fallen asleep after hours of tossing and turning – being on the constantly undulating ocean for two weeks did that to a man's rest.

"Halt, Halt? Are you awake?"

The Ranger grumbled into his pillow. He had fought valiantly for his sleep only to have a great blundering oaf steal it away...

"No," he grunted, rolling over.

"I...I think...Can I come in?"

With a ragged sigh, Halt sat up and cast a look at his son, who was fast asleep at the other end of the bed. He was curled into a tight little ball, blankets warm around him, breathing evenly.

Only in his underclothes, Halt stood and made his way to the door, where his Ranger cloak was hanging on a peg. He pulled the wedge out from beneath the door, unlocked the latch, and pulled it open.

"What is it, Horace?" he asked grumpily, stepping out and closing the door behind him. "I had just fallen asleep—"

"I think there was someone watching me," Horace said, so softly his companion had to strain to hear. "In the taproom, I could have sworn someone was staring at me. I kept getting a strange feeling, and whenever I turned around, the same man was always studying his tankard, red-faced."

Halt sighed. "Horace, men get drunk, go red in the face and stare forlornly at their empty tankards. It's what they _do_—"

Horace was shaking his head. "But I _know_ someone was watching me. I could feel it." He was frowning, a hint of consternation etched in his face.

Again the Ranger heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "Do you want to find somewhere else to go?"

"No," the knight replied sheepishly. "I'm not afraid. It's just...maybe the Toscans who kidnapped Will left someone behind to watch for us."

"And he just happened to stay at this inn?" asked Halt, cocking an eyebrow.

"He would have followed us from the docks," Horace said, only just remembering to keep his voice down. "I saw him leave just a few minutes past, and I came to tell you as soon as he left the building."

Halt stifled a yawn, shuffling his feet. "Well, there's nothing we can do now. We'll take precautions in the morning. Get some sleep...keep your sword handy, though," he added, making a mental note to place his bow at an easier reach.

* * *

The landlord knew their faces too well for Halt to feel comfortable asking any questions, and so upon completing a simple yet filling breakfast, they departed the _Dancing Dagger_, out into the warming Ostian morning. Already, early risers were setting up stall and shop, or else gossiping with friends or hastening off on personal errands. There was a mixture of garb and tongue, from the smooth language of Iberion, to the long flowing scarves of the Mideast. There were black-skinned Arridans and smartly-dressed merchants from Gallica. From the words and accents, Halt could detect Hibernians and Celts, and even the occasional Araluan. And of course, dominating the crowds were the boisterous bellows of the Toscans themselves.

After a few streets, Halt began to concentrate on the beautiful buildings that lined them. Most were made of lime- or sandstone bricks, depending on the wealth of their inhabitants. Of different shades, some ranged from a warm orange to a pale white, many dotted randomly with off-hued terracotta. The modest buildings were flat-faced, simple and humble, while other, more grand establishments had fanciful ledges, carvings, quoins, arched windows and tall, fluted columns. There were churches with domes that could swallow a Skandian wolfship, courtyards of magnificent villas perfectly tiled and gardened, piercing spires that were stairways into the heavens. It was inspirational, to say the least, a magnificent city of architectural genius.

_And if this is only Ostia_, Halt thought, staring up the intricate façade of a grand cathedral in suppressed awe,_ what will Romena be like?_

"So, what's the plan?" Horace finally asked, tearing his gaze away from a stall selling fresh, flaky pastries. The breakfast they had enjoyed at the _Dancing Dagger_, though scrumptious, was not quite enough to satisfy his beast of an appetite. But they had not the coin to spend on small treats, no matter how desirable or delectable they were.

Halt continued on, holding Crowley's hand to make sure he didn't scurry off after another stray. "Whatever we can afford. We can hire a boat to take us down the Tibern River, rent a coach, or get a pair of horses. I'm in favour of a coach myself – if we disguise ourselves, we may pass as simple merchants or farmers." Horses, he felt, would be too much to purchase with the limited coin he had, and he didn't like the sound of more water treading.

Horace didn't look so content. "But coaches are easily overtaken by bandits and other ilk. They catch a lot of that sort of attention."

"As do ferries and other land travellers," Halt replied simply, with a hint of impatience. Horace's observation, after all, had not bypassed the Ranger. He had just chosen not to acknowledge it.

He sighed. Not for the first time, he wished that they had been able to bring Abelard and Kicker. "We'll see what we can get for horses then. We—"

Halt jolted as he felt someone bump into him from behind, an impact that nearly sent him flying onto his face.

"Oi!" Horace snapped, reaching for his blade. Halt reacted in a similar fashion, pushing his son behind him protectively and hand going for his saxe knife.

"_M__i perdoni, signore__!_" the offender squealed, a slightly built man who looked to be a stonemason by the tools hanging around his belt. He quailed at the sight of the companions reaching for their weapons, and fell to his knees.

"_È stato un incidente! Non farmi del male._" He raised his hands pleadingly, bowing his head and basically grovelling to the now baffled travellers.

"Do you still have your coin pouch?" Horace hissed to Halt, who, without removing his eyes from the stonemason, felt for said pouch.

"Yes," he said. "As I do everything else. Perhaps it really was a mistake." He touched the man on the shoulder, only for him to flinch and yelp in terror. Halt rolled his eyes. "For goodness' sake, man, stand up."

At the firm but not furious tone, the stonemason glanced up at Halt, fear still swimming behind his eyes. "_Mi perdoni_," he whimpered again, before scrambling to his feet and scurrying away like a kicked dog.

Halt glared at the curious spectators, who turned stiffly away and proceeded with their tasks as though there were brooms up their arses.

Only when the usual motion of the busy street fully resumed itself did the Araluans continue as well, molding into the streams of preoccupied people and rendering themselves invisible.

They approached what appeared to be the centre of the port city, with taller, older buildings and a higher concentration of people. There were mounted guards as well, keeping a sharp eye on the surrounding activities of the large square. Their horses stamped in the rising heat, tossing heads and nickering until their armoured riders curbed them to a standstill. They seemed alert, the guards did, heads scanning the crowd as though expecting disruption at any moment.

"Where are we going?" asked Horace suddenly, and Halt flicked his head.

"There are a lot of trees that way. I'm guessing that that's where the river is. Plus..." He glanced meaningfully at the knight. "If your gut indeed was telling the truth last night, I want to lose any stalkers that may be lurking about. The crowds, I should think, are doing nicely."

Horace glanced over the roof line of the buildings to the north, and saw the dense peaks of trees lined there. As he did so, he heard a commotion behind him, and turned to look. What he saw unhinged his jaw, allowing it to fall open in shock.

"Halt, it's him!"

The Ranger turned just as a massive, well-dressed Toscan pointed at the companions, red with fury.

"_Eccoli!_" he roared, and suddenly, he was flanked by six armed guards. "_Ladri! Arrestarle!_"

Horace paled. "Erm, I don't know what he said, but I'll bet it wasn't a good thing."

Halt rolled his eyes to the heavens even as the guards surged forward, weapons raised. "You think?"

There was nowhere to go as the Toscans surrounded them, two with spears, the rest with swords. A captain stepped forward, distinguished by his ruby cape.

"_Cittadini_, _sei accusato di furti, un reato contro la città di Ostia.__ Qual è la vostra difesa?_"

Halt stepped forward, head high. "I am sorry, sir, but we do not speak Toscan."

The captain scowled at the smaller man, almost contemptuous. "Fine. We shall speaken with _your_ tongue."

His accent was thick and impudent, but Halt refrained from correcting his usage of the word speak and allowed the man to continue.

"You have been accused of thieves, citizens. What have you say in the defence?"

"We've been accused of _thievery?_" Halt exclaimed in swollen shock, enunciating thievery in an effort to smother the genuine astonishment he felt. "By whose eyes?"

The guard indicated to the sizable Toscan Horace had recognized from the _Dancing Dagger_ the previous night, who managed to hide a smirk beneath a mask of unrefined rage. "Sir Vieri Albani claimed to have witnessing you steal an object of value from his shop. A necklace?"

Halt and Horace exchanged glances. They hadn't even approached any shops, let alone one of jewelry. They were too busy regarding the beautiful city around them, a city that was becoming less and less appealing with every grammatical error the Toscan leader uttered.

The Ranger looked to the captain, affronted. "Sir, that is preposterous. We haven't even—"

"Silenced!" the other barked, swelling angrily. "You lie! You shall be searching."

"We shall be searching?" asked Horace, but he understood a moment later when the captain flicked his head, ordering his men forward to turn out their pockets.

"Fine," Halt scowled. "We have nothing to hide."

Horace felt his pack being torn off and ruffled through, bits of armour yanked out and tossed aside. There were a few murmurs of approval but no respect for the knight's garb. His sword was seized, as was his shield. For Halt, they took his bow, quiver, knives and strikers. They took his pouch of coins and emptied it on the ground in an effort to find whatever was stolen. The endeavour fruitless, they left the coins on the ground and continued to search his pockets.

Halt was fine with them handling his things; once they discovered that there had been a mistake, they would leave him and his possessions alone. What he couldn't stand for, however, was them seizing hold of his son.

"Hey!" he snapped as a guard grabbed Crowley's arm and pulled him from his father. Halt strode forward, only for another soldier to come forward, teeth and sword bared threateningly. "You have no business with him! Release him at once."

"We'll give back what's yours once you give back what's mine," Vieri snarled, looming over Halt ominously. The man must have met Horace's size or even succeeded it, and he wasn't modest in showing it off. The Ranger showed no fear, eyes blazing an icy fire at Vieri's insolence.

"There is nothing to return," he growled crisply, but he only realized then that he spoke too soon.

"_Tenente!_" a footman announced, pulling something from Halt's pocket. The Ranger's face grew notably pasty, though he managed to keep impassive.

It was a necklace, a silver chain weighed by an emerald-set pendant. It looked very expensive.

"Well well," the captain purred. "If it isn't what Vieri had so accurately descriptioned."

"For God's sake, it's '_described!_' And I didn't steal it!" Halt snapped. He was shocked when the captain's arm shot forward and grabbed the Ranger's collar, yanking him forward and up to meet eye to eye.

"No one is allowed correcting my Araluan," he hissed.

"Let him go!"

Horace surged forward, aiming to break the captain's arm if he didn't release Halt at once. His plan succeeded, in part. Even though the Toscan pushed the smaller man away, the guards came forward, aiming to protect their leader.

"That necklace was placed in my pocket," Halt declared. "By a man dressed as a stonemason. He ran into me—"

"You expect believing, Araluan?" the captain scoffed, incredulous. "If you know he did this, why did you keep the necklace, eh?"

Halt was boiling over with exasperation. "Because I didn't know it was there until you found it, you imbecile!"

The Toscan clearly didn't know what an imbecile was, but he didn't take it as a respectful title and made as though to strike Halt. "_Bastardo_. You show insolence one more time—"

Horace saw the balled fists and lost it. With a wild cry, he swung at the captain, and the blow proved true. The leader fell in a crumpled heap, nose shattered, and in the three seconds of utter shock, the Araluans made their move.

"This way!"

Halt scooped up Crowley as Horace knocked aside a guard, seizing the man's sword as he did so and ploughing through the spectators that had crowded around to watch. Women screamed in lady-like terror and danced aside, while gents in pristine clothes moved even quicker to make way, else their silk shirts obtain a wrinkle.

"Stop, thieves!" Vieri howled after them, but he was quickly lost in the compacted crowd.

"In here!" Horace indicated to a narrow alley, and Halt was quick to follow – he, too, had noticed that the mounted guards were moving in on the commotion, swords drawn. They may or may not have spotted the Araluans, but that was no reason to take chances.

Hurtling crates, rubbish and unconscious drunks, the companions darted up and down the lean alleys, mourning the loss of their equipment but striving to escape with their lives. They could hear pursuers from all directions, as though they anticipated where their quarry was to emerge.

"Halt, I think we've gone in a circle," Horace hissed, barely breathing hard. Halt, however, was burdened by Crowley and by age. He couldn't go on much further at such a pace. He sagged slightly, gasping.

"No," he breathed raggedly. "We've been _herded._"

On cue, the sounds of pursuit were all around them now, and there was only the light of day before them. They were being forced back into the open.

"This was planned," Halt growled. "Vieri...he must have been with the Toscans who kidnapped Will. What other reason would he have for this?"

"What, do you think he's got the entire Ostian Guard in his pocket?" asked Horace, hand tightening around the hilt of the stolen sword.

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Halt, setting Crowley down, who had been silenced in terror for the entire escape. There were tears on his cheeks, but still he made no sound. "Aetius Opus has an entire arena starring bloodbaths mere miles from here. I'm sure he's managed to swallow the loyalty of every guard..."

A loud rattling announced the approach of their pursuers, and they flinched like guilty vandals.

"This way," Halt whispered, taking up his son again and retracing a few steps. There they returned to a fork they had previously ignored and now accepted, vanishing into the shadows.

Their trackers, however, did not give up lightly, and they could hear them in the alley behind them. Once they reached where four paths met, the knight and Ranger froze, at a loss of where to turn next.

"Psst! _Qua, qua!_"

They glanced right, and saw a small, filthy young boy peeking his head out of a gaping hole in the wall. A beggar child by the looks of him, a master of escaping law. He was beckoning to them urgently.

"Hide!" he said lowly. "Hide here! You die if they catch you."

Halt exchanged a look with Horace, who looked prepared to take a chance if it meant escape. With any luck, he could fit in that rat hole.

A loud crash from the left alley sealed the deal, and Horace led the way towards the young beggar and his escape route twenty paces down the way. And so he probably never knew what hit him even when he woke up hours later—Halt knew, though. He saw the meaty fist that flew from around a corner like a bull, colliding with Horace's jaw and knocking him out cold. The knight slammed down onto his back, and Halt, unable to stop in time, staggered over him and fell forward. He would have crushed Crowley had he not shot out an arm to stop himself in time. The skin evaporated from his palm and the impact sent a jar through his frame that made him wince. Years of pulling the heavy draw weight of a longbow permitted him to hold himself up, however, and he made ready to stand.

"_Salve, amico_."

The same hulking paw that had knocked Horace senseless now latched onto Halt's throat and hauled him upwards. The Ranger choked, one hand automatically reaching for the knife that wasn't there. Crowley squirmed free of his embrace and fell to the ground, and then both of Halt's hands wrapped around his assailant's wrist and tried to pull it away, to no avail.

Vieri snorted in derision at the pathetic attempt, squeezing even tighter with relish. Halt gasped, mouth gaped as he struggled to inhale even a whisper of air. Terror gripped his heart as mercilessly as the hand on his neck, feet suspended off the ground, thrashing like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Darkness bleached into the edges of his vision, fire tore down his throat, and, for the first time in years, he felt truly afraid for his life.

"Let Papa go! Let Papa go!"

Blearily, he could see tiny fists pounding on the monster that was Vieri, fists that could barely reach up to the man's waist.

_No, Crowley, run..._

Contemptuous, Vieri kicked the boy away viciously, and Halt was helpless to stop him.

_Run..._

The stamping of feet and barking of orders was a fuzzy blur of nonsense in his ears. He was aware though, of two small figures dashing away, one pulling the other, to disappear into a small hole in the wall. But then all he saw was Vieri's free fist, rising with hideous, tormenting pleasure, and then it shot forward with the fury of a god, and Halt knew no more.

* * *

**Gotta stall them somehow...I know you all want to see Will in the games, horrible people that you are... **

**;3**


	23. Leek Soup

**Okay, so I kinda sorta told Savannah Silverstone that I would update last night. Then I forgot o_o Whoopsie-daisy. So enjoy this chapter with a very strange title! :D**

* * *

~23~ Leek Soup

_Thrum. Thrum. Thrum._

Gilan only just managed not to swallow as the commandant continued to drum his fingers on the wooden arm of his chair, eyes fixated on the younger Ranger standing before him. A teasing droplet of sweat slipped down Gilan's spine with the gentleness of a feather, and a mallet pounded relentlessly at the inside of his chest. He cleared his throat, which felt like sandpaper.

"So...that's it," he said finally, lifting his uninjured arm slightly out to the side. A grand conclusion if there ever was one.

Crowley, namesake of Halt's son and the grizzled old Ranger's best friend, quirked an eyebrow that might as well have been the falling gavel of Gilan's death sentence.

"'That's it,' eh?" he said, mockingly light. "That's the epic, tragic tale of Araluen's greatest heroes?"

_Thrum. Thrum. Thrum._

Again Gilan had to refrain from swallowing the nervous lump in his throat. His eyes darted from one corner of the chamber to the other like a dragonfly. "Pretty much."

Crowley sighed deep and long, so long it posed a question as to how much oxygen he could hold in his lungs. "I see, then."

_Thrum._

He stood, striding slowly from around the desk that was buried beneath a mountain of records and reports. Gilan watched him warily, tentatively, barely risking to move his head to follow the commandant's progress.

Crowley stopped by a small table, upon which sat a platter topped by a silver cloche.

"Leek soup?"

Gilan blinked. "Sir?"

The commandant lifted the bell-shaped food cover. "Soup, man, leek soup! I've rather grown a fondness for it. Don't know why they have to bother with these ridiculous bowl things, though." Holding the cloche, he turned in a circle, looking for a convenient place to set it down.

"Erm, no thanks, sir," said Gilan, wishing that he could simply melt into the floor.

"Pah! What is this 'sir' rubbish now? What are you, a schoolboy?" With a snort, Crowley muttered to himself as he continued to look around for a handy place to set the food cover down. Then he realized how long it was taking him and huffed with impatience.

"Help a daft old man. Take this."

Gilan padded forward and accepted the cloche, which dripped moisture onto his hand and onto the floor. He quickly turned it upside down before his superior noticed.

"Now," said Crowley, tearing off a hunk of bread and dipping it into the leek soup, "tell me something."

_Oh no_, Gilan thought, spine stiffening. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but Crowley was too busy enjoying his soup to notice.

"Why is it...that you came all this way to Castle Araluen—nearly running your horse to the ground, risking infection to your wound _and_ waking me up in the middle of a midday nap in doing so—to report to me that Halt and Horace had set off across the seas in pursuit of Will Treaty and the Toscans who abducted him...instead of going with them?"

Gilan hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry, sir. I—wait, what?"

Crowley's eyebrows were knitted in a dangerous scowl, but there was a glint of mischief dancing in the gleam of his eyes. "Doing exactly what the book tells you to...How can you call yourself a Ranger?"

"I...well, I—" Gilan sputtered, his own eyes wide and perturbed.

"And a Ranger trained by _Halt,_ no less."

"That is, uh..." He babbled into nothing, astounded. Crowley scanned the nonplussed look on his face...and then burst out laughing.

"Great balls of fire, Gilan! Can't you tell when a decrepit old curmudgeon is pulling your leg?" The commandant strode forward and embraced the younger Ranger, who stood there stiffly, baffled. "Youth these days. Have no sense of humour. Stop looking so flabbergasted, man! It is quite unbecoming of you." He held Gilan at arm's length, grinning as he gazed off into the far corner. "What a great word, flabbergasted. It's right up there with soliloquy and brouhaha."

Gilan's expression slipped from one of perplexity to one of anxious consternation. Sometimes he wondered if Crowley was...all there.

He cleared his throat again as his elder returned to the leek soup. "So, uh...you think I should go after them?"

Crowley's mouth was full of bread. "Mm-hm."

"But..." Gilan's whole face lifted with astonishment. "They'll have almost three weeks on me by the time I get to Toscana!"

The commandant swallowed. "So?" he asked, shrugging. "Romena isn't getting further away."

"And my arm! What use am I if I can't even draw a bow?"

"I heard you have the spirit of a sword. And you can use one, too."

"But what about...?" Gilan froze, further protests halted on his tongue. Why in all of Araluen was he arguing?

Crowley's arched eyebrow indicated similar musings. Then the younger Ranger saw his mouth twitch, and he shrugged again.

"I suppose you're right. I will send a message to Ranger Aaron. I'm sure he'd enjoy an opportunity to—"

"No, wait!"

Now both of Crowley's eyebrows tried to reach his greying hairline, and Gilan stopped, sheepish.

"I mean...I would be honoured to journey to Toscana and help rescue Will," he said formally. "With your permission, sir, I will leave as soon as able."

Crowley regarded him with mock severity. "If you believe you're up to it...I suppose you'll do." He turned away and tore off another chunk of bread. "But first, you really must try this leek soup. It's quite delectable."

Gilan smiled for the first time in days. "You know, I would love some leek soup."

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

The only section of Romena Will got to see was a grimy, weathered retaining wall that ran alongside the River Tibern in the older district of the city. Delving deep into the depths of the wall was a massive drain, emitting a ghastly stench one could almost chew.

The _Sterna Argento_ drew to a halt for only a few moments before continuing up the river, unburdened now by several passengers and a rowboat.

"Keep steady," Julius hissed. "You don't want to end up in these waters, trust me."

Scowling, Will had half a mind to do just that, rock their little boat until they all spilled into the sludge that drained into the river. But bound and gagged that he was, he didn't believe that such an act of petty revenge would do him much good.

_The great Will Treaty...drowns in a sewer tunnel_, he thought with grim frivolity. _Not exactly favourable material for a heroic ballad..._

A torch was finally lit once the silvery moonshine was lost to them, and the source of the putrid stench was illuminated. The circular tunnel was oozing sludge and grime, masses of black matter creeping up the edges or else dripping in long tendrils from the curved ceiling. Small, thrashing figures indicated rats swimming for cover. The darkness stretched on forever.

The rowers grumbled in dissent, casting distasteful looks at their surroundings. There was a grand city above their heads, and they were doomed to creep below it like vagabonds.

_Suck it up, princesses_, Will growled inwardly. _They_ could at least pull their shirts up and breathe through their mouths. Will, however, was condemned to suffer the rancid stench as they rowed up the tunnel, his gag not protecting his nose.

The pervasive odour prolonged what should have been a short voyage, and Will hoped that the conjoining tunnel, a gently swaying wharf at its mouth, was the last stretch of repulsive trekking.

Four men stood on the wooden, rotting platform, two wielding torches, awaiting for the small rowboat in complete and eery silence. The nearness of Julius' torch blinded Will to the faces of the waiting men.

"'Bout time you got here, Julius," one man growled, and the Ranger's ears rang with familiarity. The man's accent was slurring, guttural, and clearly Araluan. "Began to believe you'd given up."

"All the more reason why I am where I am and you remain where you have always resided in life," Julius toned wearily, standing as the rowboat was steered alongside the wharf. The Araluan snorted disdainfully.

"Be that as it may, you have no authority over me."

Julius cast him a withering glance. "Of course not. It would be like ruling over the sludge that drips from these walls. Pointless, and humiliating."

The Araluan choked on his own spit in outrage, but Julius was already reaching down to grasp Will's upper arm, indicating that he stand with him.

"I believe you know each other."

The Ranger squinted, trying to see past the blinding glare of Julius' torch. Then the Toscan moved, and the Araluan stranger was revealed. Will blanched.

Small, beady eyes that bespoke of greed and unbound callousness. Short hair barely thick enough to cover the sunburned bald patch on the top of his skull. Wide, toad-like smile with a grotesquely swollen lower lip, surrounded by an unkempt beard and moustache. A leery grin that gave new meaning to the word ugly.

"We meet again, Ranger Will," chortled Berkart Falk, who somehow managed to pack on several pounds since the Ranger had last seen him, kicked from Castle Highcliff with his sentence of exile. His silk shirt stretched over his bulging belly, a deep red not dark enough to hide the food stains dribbling down his front. His black pants were not flattering to his physique, and his boots were coated in sewer sludge. He sneered at being observed.

"Proud, ain't ya, for pulling me down so far. For taking me away from my beloved Mountains of Rain and Night, for stealing land that was to be mine by right of birth! Think you're a hero, yes you do. Well let me tell you somethin'. I'm gonna own lands the king himself will envy once I turn you over to Lord Aetius, head of House Opus. I—"

"You?"

Falk stopped as Julius intervened with barely-controlled contempt. He stepped onto the wharf from the boat, bringing Will with him.

"_You_ are going to turn him over? What gave you that impression, _amico_?"

Now Falk scowled, thick lip curling down in a hideous sneer.

"You would never have found him without me. You wouldn't have even known he _existed_ without me!"

Julius met the ugly man eye for eye. "But you did not outwit him. You did not risk your life to subdue him. You whispered his whereabouts and swallowed a pouch of gold for it. A pointing finger is hardly enough to give credit for."

Fuming, Falk's face became red with fury. "We had a _deal_, Toscan."

"Yes. You would point the way, we would fetch him, and then we would bring him to you. We never agreed on surrendering him to your possession."

Will glanced from one man to the other, oddly amused despite being the product of their treacherous bargain. He felt a flicker of warmth for Julius then, but only a flicker. Nothing more.

"Now," said the physician, ignoring Falk, "let us be gone from this place. I do not wish to throw out a perfectly good suit because the stench couldn't be purged."

Will was steered up the new tunnel quickly, the three newcomer Toscans joining in with their torches. Falk's eyes spat venom at him as he passed, but the Ranger responded with cool indifference, meeting fire with ice. Then he could not help but smirk, and Falk looked ready to strike him.

_Go ahead_, Will thought maliciously, _make my day_.

The Araluan was lost from view, and there was no strike. Will was almost disappointed.

Ϯ Ϯ Ϯ

A rough jolt jerked Halt awake, and he could not swallow the moan before it seeped slowly from between his cracked lips. His head felt like a melon, swollen and dense, throbbing painfully with every pound of his heart. Dried blood flaked from his cheek as he raised himself up a few inches before slumping back down.

_Where am I?_

He was lying on a thin layer of dry straw and sawdust, which carpeted what appeared to be a large wooden box. Barred shadows were cast across Halt's side, and when he moved, he became aware of the manacle that was chaining his right arm to the floor. The chain was roughly five feet long, giving him a little manoeuvrability.

Rolling onto his back, Halt waited for his head to stop pounding, allowing the constant bumping and jostling to lull him to sleep. He knew that his prison was being drawn by horses, and again tried to remember how he got there.

_Ostia...the man from the tavern...being followed...attacked in the alley..._

Suddenly, he remembered. And his eyes went wide in fear.

Crowley!

His mind's eye scanned through what memories had bled into recollection. He saw the blurred form of his son beating his tiny fists on the beast of a man, Vieri Albani. Another small figure, the beggar child, pulling him away to escape...Then nothing. Halt must have been knocked out at that point.

_So he's still in Ostia_, he thought, deflating somewhat. What could that mean? That little Crowley would grow up on the filthy streets of a port town, forgetting his homeland and forever wondering what had become of his father? Would he even survive that long?

Sitting up was a big mistake, but he merely waited until his head ceased to spin before dragging himself to the barred window, peeking out cautiously against the light. His hands grasped the bars tightly, as though to bend them and tear them free.

Green country spread out beyond, basking in a hot Toscan sun. Wisps of shredded cloud stretched lazily across azure skies, toyed by the warm breeze. Halt leaned closer, trying to catch sight of his captors, with no luck.

_Arrested for thievery_, he thought darkly, sitting back against the wall with a scowl. _That treacherous stonemason. Scrawny little weed is probably weighed down by the pay..._

There was an especially violent lurch, and Halt's head cracked on the wall with a _thud_. Wincing, he rubbed the tender spot and glared out the window. Why can't any journey be a simple matter of getting from point A to point B?

_But that wouldn't be realistic_, he snorted inwardly, lying down and trying to get comfortable. _That wouldn't be exciting enough_...

* * *

In the absence of motion, Halt awoke a second time. He shifted drowsily, and grunted as his stiffened limbs creaked in protest.

_Blast these aged bones!_ he grumbled to himself, sitting up and massaging his manacled arm.

There was activity going on outside, and, curious, he pulled his aching body to the window and peeked out again.

Dusk was nigh, the brilliant yellows and reds of nature's palette splashed across the western horizon and the final dregs of daylight chased by the revealing stars. In preparation for night, Halt's captors were building fires, picketing horses and striking tents. Sentries were posted while cooks prepared meals for the rumbling stomachs of the soldiers.

"Halt?"

The Ranger flinched and turned quickly, noticing for the first time that there was another waggon bearing a prison like his own right beside his, viewed through the other window. Horace's face looked orange in the deepening sky, and Halt could see his hands grasping the bars.

"What happened? Who are these people?" he asked, somewhat dazedly.

"Ostian guard, I suspect," Halt growled. "Taking us somewhere. We were arrested, remember?"

Horace frowned, still looking sleepy. He had been knocked senseless far longer than Halt, it would seem.

"Where are we going?"

The Ranger shrugged. "To Romena, I should suspect, to stand trial."

Horace's eyebrow quirked in response. "Well, I didn't expect the journey to Romena would turn out like this, but I suppose it will do. Cheaper."

Perhaps it was the frivolous tone the knight chose, but Halt felt a surge of unprecedented anger.

"It will do? It will _do?_ Horace, they're taking us to be _executed_. If we're lucky, we'll get a trial, but it will end the same bloody way."

"Well, pardon _me_ for being optimistic," the knight snapped, glaring haughtily. "We've been in worse situations, Halt! Neither of us are dead yet, and excuse me when I say, that's the _only_ thing that would stop you from getting us out of here."

"How classy of you, assuming that I can just pull escape plans right out of my—"

"Oi, _silenzio!_"

Something was slammed against the bars of the other window, and Halt jumped a league before turning around, disgruntled. There was no one to see.

Halt sighed. "Let's just see what tomorrow will bring."

Thirty minutes later, a panel set into the prison door was slid aside, and a shallow bowl was pushed through with a spoon and chunk of bread. Horace was given the same, and the knight very nearly pounced on it.

"'S not bad," he said around a mouthful of food, and Halt picked up his own dish and set his back against a corner. It was fish stew, and, indeed, it was pretty good. There wasn't a lot, though, and because the Ranger hadn't been feeling very hungry in the first place, food entering his belly made him realize that he was indeed hungry, and the small morsel wasn't enough to curb the necessity.

"Got any left over?"

Halt rolled his eyes.

"If I did, I wouldn't be sharing it with your gluttonous appetite!"

"Aw, come on, Halt, I'm twice your size."

"All the more reason, then!"

There was a depressed sigh from the other waggon, and a tiny grin breached Halt's usually impassive face.

_I'm getting too soft_, he chided himself, wiping the smirk off and replacing it with a grim scowl. Sliding the bowl away with his foot, he wrapped his cloak around himself – grateful that he had been allowed to keep it – and lay on his side in the corner, preparing to sleep.

"Halt?"

A sigh. "What?"

"I really have to pee."

Halt's eyes snapped open in exasperated disbelief. "Well don't tell _me_ that."

"What am I supposed to do, piss out the window?"

The Ranger shuddered, doing his utmost best to not imagine such a sight. "I don't know. Tell our lovely, hospitable captors."

Snorting, Horace shuffled around in his own cage. "Like they'd let _me_ out."

"Cross your legs then. Get some sleep." _And stop talking about peeing_, he added inwardly, not wanting to be reminded that he had a bladder, too.

More grumbling and shuffling, the sounds of hay being picked up and piled into a pillow. Halt could hear him tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable. Then he sighed heavily.

"This is impossible. How am I ever supposed to get a—"

"Let me guess," the Ranger cooed mockingly, "a good knight's sleep?"

"Ha, nice one, Halt."

_Grrrrr..._

* * *

**Credit to whichever book it was...might have been Halt's Peril...where Will made the oh-so-hil_arious_ "good knight's sleep" joke :3 **


End file.
